


In the Stillness of Remembering

by elise_509



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 70,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elise_509/pseuds/elise_509
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is a reminder of a past that Tony Stark would rather forget.  But when Steve’s own ghosts suddenly become the present, Tony finds he and Steve need each other to face the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

[Art Masterpost](http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com/269743.html) by chosenfire28

[Soundtrack](http://elise-509.livejournal.com/378397.html)  


“What…precisely is going on here?” Tony makes a vague gesture around Steve’s person as he takes in the set of blue and white striped button-down pajamas that are hanging off Steve’s body. They’re about a full size too big, which makes Tony wonder how and where Steve even found them. And if he bothered telling Thor that he’d found a store with off-the-rack clothes made for giants.

Steve blinks at him, sleep clearing from his blue eyes with enviable speed. 

“Is everything all right? I didn’t get a call from Director Fury.” Steve is already near full alertness and his tone is brimming with concern. Tony could guarantee that if someone had woken _him_ up from a dead sleep at three in the morning, the welfare of others would be the furthest thing from his mind. 

“Everything’s fine,” Tony waves him off, pushing past him through the doorway and inviting himself inside. His shoes click on the hardwood floor. He glances around, taking in his surroundings quickly. It doesn’t take long; Steve’s entire place is the size of his childhood playroom. It smells incredibly clean yet musty, like age is clinging to the wallpaper and can’t really be washed away no matter how many times Steve gives everything a fine military polish. The rooms are sparse and tidy, bordering on bare. There’s little furniture, all of it battered but sturdy, handcrafted. Not the kind of cheap modern furniture put together on the quick; more like furniture bought at an estate sale. 

Tony grimaces. 

“Who the hell did you rent this place from, _The Honeymooners_?”

“Who?”

“Nevermind.” Tony wanders further, tapping his fingers across the sill as he passes the window, which is propped half-open to cool the joint down. The night’s too warm for that to do much good though. He doubts Steve would want to install an air conditioner, if he even knows what one is. A few potted plants sit on the rusted metal grating of the fire escape; a short clothesline is strung up, white t-shirts pinned and fluttering slightly in the barely there breeze. He holds back a snort at the thought of Steve likely cleaning them using a washboard in the kitchen sink. 

There’s an array of folders in two stacks on the nearby table and the SHIELD logo stamped across the face of one catches Tony’s attention. An open folder tops the smaller stack; Tony recognizes a photo of his father anywhere. The big red _deceased_ marked across the bottom corner of the personnel form is atrociously tacky. He wonders whose job it is to make _that_ rubber stamp. He flips the folder shut with a curt flick of his hand and moves on. 

“You could really use a sprucing up in here, cowboy. Or perhaps a complete tear down and remodel from the ground up. Either or.” Tony comments dryly as he spots the green pilled fabric on the old-fashioned love seat by the old Zenith radio – _radio_? – in the corner. He points to the wooden cabinet. “Really?”

“It doesn’t work,” Steve mumbles. 

“You’ve got cash, buy a new one.” From the look on Steve’s face, that’s a non-option. “Or here’s a thought, fix it.” 

Steve turns and goes to the kitchen, apparently deciding that whatever Tony’s business might be at this hour, it is clearly not Avengers-related and therefore he can, at the very least, stand down. Tony follows him slowly, stopping to lean against the open doorway between the living room and kitchen.

“Hardly seems worth the trouble. Not as if I’m going to turn the dial and hear what I used to hear.” Steve opens up the white Frigidaire, his tone as flat as Tony’s ever heard it. The fridge is mostly empty but Steve bends down to look as if he needs to sort through stocked shelves. As Steve buys time for whatever reason, Tony takes a moment to consider the room. 

Apart from the teakettle on the stove and the toaster on the counter, the kitchen is unsurprisingly free of gadgets and appliances. The drying rack by the sink implies Steve’s never bothered to open the dishwasher. There’s decaying vintage art of the American flag on the pale green wall and Tony suspects that apart from the cross hanging by the door, that’s as far into decorating the place as Steve will ever get. 

“Besides, I don’t have a pressing need to hear Lady Gaga and if I did, s’pose that’s what an iPod is for.” Steve turns back from the fridge, carton of milk in hand. Tony hesitates a moment, pulling himself away from evaluating Steve’s living space and focusing back on the conversation. 

“Firstly – it boggles my mind that you know who Lady Gaga is; secondly, who gave you an iPod if not me; and thirdly, why the radio at all then?”

“Agent Barton mentioned the lady in passing as a possible alien invader – and yes, I did realize he was joking –” Steve cuts Tony off before he can interject. “And Agent Romanoff provided the iPod-”

“ _Natasha_ did?” Tony assumes that’s what’s sitting, most likely untouched, inside the white Apple store bag on the viciously ugly pale yellow linoleum counter. He eyes it suspiciously and lowers his voice, using his hand to shield his mouth from direct sight of the bag. He’s not even sure if he’s kidding around in doing so. “She is probably listening to us right now. Just so you know.” 

“She wouldn’t do that,” Steve retorts quickly and Tony doesn’t doubt for a second that Steve believes it. He’s about to ask Steve when he saw Nat when Steve presses on, still answering the list of questions that Tony has already forgotten he asked. “And the radio…well, the radio is comforting.” 

“Like this apartment is comforting?” Tony raises an eyebrow. Steve doesn’t reply but he visibly swallows hard, a shadow crossing over his face like a power source abruptly cutting out and then switching back on – brief but very dark. 

The bare bulb fluorescent light fixture above Steve’s head is flickering slightly; Tony can hear it buzz. It’s probably an update from the 70s by the look of it, so, really, not much of an update at all. He eyes it, eyes Steve. 

“It’s an illusion.”

“Of course it’s an illusion.” Steve looks at him straight on and blank-faced. It leaves Tony frankly puzzled and frustrated. He takes a breath and puts his palms together, pointing his fingers toward Steve. 

“Here’s where you’re goin’ wrong, Cap. An illusion is pointless if you _know_ it’s an illusion. What you should be going for here is _de_ lusion.” Tony’s sarcastic advice is met with a stern frown. 

“Look. I know ten feet outside that door it’s a different world. That’s pretty hard to ignore. Not kidding myself, Stark. But here…it’s one place at least that doesn’t feel _completely_ wrong.”

“500 square feet of not wrong ain’t much.”

“It’s something.” Steve retrieves a glass from the cupboard and glances toward Tony, holding it up in offer. Tony allows the conversation to be diverted elsewhere, pretty sure he doesn’t really want to get too deep into this with Steve anyway. 

“Got anything stronger?” He asks, though he hardly expects Steve to suddenly pull a bottle of Jack from some secret hiding place. To his shock, Steve reaches into the small cabinet above the stove and pulls down a bottle of scotch. “Your file says that you can’t drink.”

“Can’t get drunk; there is a difference,” Steve corrects, a slight smile breaking his stoic expression. For a moment Tony thinks he might be pleased with this turn of events, but Steve backs away from the edge of comfortable familiarity as quickly as he approached it. “This isn’t for me though. My mother always said to be prepared to entertain guests.”

“Well this guest will have it on the rocks, then.” He retreats to the living room and sits down on the arm of the loveseat, watching from a distance as Steve clinks cubes into the glass, uncaps the bottle and pours. The apartment falls near silent. Tony can hear the subway rattling somewhere close by. It makes the floor vibrate.

He considers asking Steve if the train came through this neighborhood when he lived around here, _before_ , but the thought crosses his mind that maybe Steve’s sick of being asked these things. Like he’s a human time capsule only here to compare and contrast the now and the then. 

Steve circles the kitchen counter and walks to Tony, stopping directly in front of him and gingerly handing him his glass. He meets Tony’s gaze as he sets the drink in his outstretched palm. This close, Tony notices the day’s worth of stubble shadowing Steve’s sharp jaw line; it makes him look older, slightly tired. It also means Steve’s someone who likes to shower and shave in the morning, which isn’t surprising in the least. The guy probably rises before the sun. 

Tony lifts the drink to his lips, ice cubes rattling. 

“You know all your friendly, helpful neighbors are actually SHIELD agents, right?” 

Steve sighs, two fingers pinching his furrowed brow.

“I do.”

“Even the old lady across the hall. She’s actually only sixty or so, give or take, but she’s had a hard knock life, man. You should hear the stories.”

“I’m aware.”

“You already got the low down? Steven Rogers, I never would’ve pegged you for a gossip.”

“No, I meant-“

“And you made the guy working the counter at the bodega ‘round the corner too, right?”

“Tony…why are you here?” 

“Do I need a reason to stop by, see a pal?” His tone is as jovial and casual as Steve’s had been soft and serious.

“ _Are_ we pals?” Steve is ever direct. Tony could _maybe_ like that about him, but it’s easier to enjoy when Steve’s bluntly challenging someone else, like Fury or Hill. 

“We’re not enemies.” Tony replies simply, then drinks slowly, gauging him over the rim of the glass.

“About what happened on the helicarrier-“

Tony waves Steve off, knowing from the earnest look on his face that this is going somewhere touchy-feely and not wanting to visit that particular land of marshmallows and sunshine tonight. 

“I think we’re over that. We both got each other wrong. Bygones. I mean, if you need to hug it out, guess we can. But we don’t need to.”

“’Hug it out’?”

“Anybody teach you about Google yet?” Tony points at him with the hand still holding his glass, the liquid barely sloshing. There’s a SHIELD-issued laptop sitting next to those files on Steve’s tiny dining room table, but that doesn’t mean the man knows how to use it. “Because keeping up with me is going to be hard and conversations are going to be made exponentially and needlessly longer if I have to stop and explain every completely unimportant offhand reference I make.”

“Not much time for Google.” Steve sets his untouched glass of milk on the end table and crosses his arms over his chest. “Thus far I’ve helped defend the earth from a loony demigod and his army, and then went for shawarma. That’s really about it.”

“Don’t let you get out much, do they.”

“Tony.”

“Steven.” 

Steve tenses at the sight of his smirk. 

“Tony. It’s the middle of the night. You didn’t come over here to inform me that I’d be hopelessly out of my depth in a _Jeopardy!_ tournament.”

“Yet you know what _Jeopardy!_ is. There’s hope for you yet.” 

“Tony…”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out. Pee-Wee Herman. Look it up. No –” He shakes his head. “– On second thought, don’t. That’s a bad idea. I’m sure you’ve seen enough weird stuff as it is.” Steve exhales with a hint of desperation. He takes the glass from Tony’s loose grip and bends down in front of him. 

“Are you all right? I mean…should I call Miss Potts?” His eyes seem more clear and blue when he’s concerned, even though Tony _knows_ that’s a physiological impossibility. He wants to hold Steve’s earnest gaze on the principle that that look is making him jumpy and nervous. He doesn’t like it therefore he must defeat it. 

He’s not built for standing still though, more likely to steamroll over someone and just keep going than plant his feet and face them down. So he moves. He’s a mover. 

“I’m fine,” Tony reclaims his drink, finishes it with a long swig, and places the empty back in Steve’s grasp. “But you’re right, it’s late. I should go.”

“Never even said why you came over in the first place.” 

“Fair point.” Tony glances at Steve again, and what a mistake. That _look_.

It’s not wrong for Steve to expect an answer. It should be an easy question. 

But Tony doesn’t have a clue why he came, or more to the crux of the matter, what he hopes to gain from being here. All he knows is that he was in his lab and he felt like he was crawling out of his skin. After a few weeks the excitement over the plans to reconfigure Stark Tower for the Avengers’ use wore off, and even the prospect of the work he and Bruce might be able to complete together, their two great minds combined, faded as nighttime minutes ceaselessly ticked their way into early morning hours. Not even repairs and re-designs to his suit could release the pressure building up inside of him and he could feel his gears rattling, gaskets getting ready to blow.

He had needed to get out. He had needed to make sure, somehow, that he wasn’t the only one feeling as he did.

Because the truth is, everyone went their own separate ways that day, casual goodbyes and thoughtless assumptions that those next times would just work themselves out. Fury would call them in; the world would need them once more. 

And he knows that’s what will happen. He knows everyone will come back, that’s not the problem. The problem is that he hadn’t wanted anyone to leave in the first place. 

This realization didn’t hit until much, much later. He didn’t immediately comprehend that he hadn’t suddenly been willing to lay down his life for the sake of the city and for the world at large. He hadn’t needed any reason on that grand a scale. He’d been willing to do it for _them._

His days of cutting the wire are over. So now he’s hopelessly tied.

Tied to this wildly disparate group of people now scattered across the globe – the _universe_ , even - and above all, tied to Steve. Tied to Steve maybe more than most, in a taut line that stretches across oceans and ice, decades and wars and money and death and milestones unmarked because his father was off searching…elsewhere. 

There’s just…so much. Too much. 

He doesn’t want to deal but it’s there, and it’s all shouting at him incessantly, a cacophony impossible to ignore.

Steve has no idea what stands in that paradoxically infinitesimal yet vast space between them. Tony isn’t sure that he ever wants to tell him; he isn’t sure what he’d say. _At one point in my life, I adored you? At one point in my life, I hated you? Right now, I don’t know how the fuck I feel except I don’t want you to disappear while I figure this shit out?_

“Tony.” His name again. Steve has this way of saying it that sounds like both a plea and an order. Tony doesn’t know how that’s possible and he knows why most everything is possible.

Steve’s very existence might actually drive him crazy. All the shit he’s been through in his life, the terror and the betrayal and the heartache he has _survived_ , and Steve Rogers is going to do him in by mere proximity. 

Tony shakes himself from his thoughts, realizing he’s been silent for a good couple of minutes, his hand still covering the glass he’d placed between Steve’s fingers and his vacant gaze still seemingly trained on Steve’s face. 

He attempts to re-focus but his previous thoughts remain a steady undercurrent to everything running through his mind now.

“You probably never give up, do you.” He finishes a half-formed notion that began somewhere unspoken and came out a damning accusation and an awed observation. Steve’s brow furrows and his hold tightens almost imperceptibly on the glass. Tony lets go of it and stands up. 

He needs to leave. 

Steve’s voice stops him. 

“If that’s your way of asking if I’m planning on going anywhere, I’m not. I’m staying right here.”

“Right…” Tony nods, looking down to where Steve kneels on the floor. He just now notices Steve’s got hair sticking up at the back of his head, rumpled from sleep, and for a moment Steve seems so young and innocent that something in his stomach twists and clenches. “Because where else would you go?”

Steve looks at him like he’s the one who is young and doesn’t understand. 

“That’s not why people stay, Tony.” 

“Isn’t it?” He replies. He can’t describe how Steve stares at him then, but he doesn’t really like _that_ look either. “Anyway. Thanks for the drink, Cap. See you around.”

“You don’t have to leave – “

Tony’s the two steps it takes to get to the door before he turns back, plucking a plastic ID card from the back pocket of his jeans. He slips it into the front breast pocket of Steve’s seriously outdated pajamas and pats his hand over it against Steve’s chest. 

“New security ID cards for the tower. Come by, use the new gym, whatever. It’s there. We’re there.”

He lets himself out the door and Steve’s soft spoken _Thank you_ chases him down the stairway like the most well intentioned monster there ever was.

*******

“Oh, hello.” Tony’s step falters minimally as he rounds the corner and finds Natasha, clad in a pair of black yoga pants and a dark red tank, perched on the edge of the kitchen’s island. He lets the magazine he was reading flop downward in his hands. “I take it you’re back then.”

She licks the rest of the yogurt from her spoon before bothering to reply. He tosses the magazine onto the counter beside her, going about his business as if unexpectedly finding a highly trained assassin in his kitchen at ten a.m. isn’t the slightest bit jarring.

“Apparently.”

“And how is Colombia this time of year?”

“Hot.” Natasha agilely hops down from the counter, bare feet landing on linoleum with an almost dainty grace. For all Tony’s taught himself and made for himself, he still moves like a machine when he’s in the suit. A well oiled and elegantly designed machine, but a machine nonetheless. 

His gaze follows Nat as she slips across the kitchen and deposits the empty container in the trash and the spoon into the dishwasher. He wonders if she intentionally means to move like this all the time or if it’s been drilled into the core of her being like so much else. She turns to face him as she pushes the dishwasher firmly closed behind her. 

“Did you forget what I looked like while I was gone? Last time you looked at my ass this long, Stark, you thought I was your PA.”

“Not staring. Evaluating,” Tony corrects. “And not your ass, as lovely as it may be.” He ignores her glare as he tilts his head and narrows his eyes, moving to consider her form from another angle as ideas ping around his brain. “It’s your gait.”

Anyone else would’ve been puzzled, but Natasha stares at him like that’s the least interesting thing he’s ever said. 

“You up for some biometric tests later? I’m working on a lighter weight alloy for the suit, trying to up the speed, and I’d like to -“

“Can’t. I got a thing.” 

“A thing?” Natasha nods, frustratingly vague, and Tony makes a face at her. “You and Clint are always going off on ‘things’. SHIELD-related ‘things’. Fury should really be sending us all out on these ‘things’. You know, team building and other such nonsense. Misadventures and the like breed brotherhood. Or so I’ve heard. I never got much into the whole frat thing at college. I think I’d enjoy hazing Katniss, though that’s just a guess.”

“Barton and I are still agents, Stark. You’re… _you_. We all have our day jobs.”

Tony pretends to contemplate this.

“Yes, well, I suppose all things considered, I do have the better end of that stick.” He grabs a bottle of mineral water from the doublewide refrigerator and cracks it open. By the time the heavy stainless steel door falls closed, Natasha has disappeared from the room. 

“By the way, Steve’s here.” Her voice echoes back, an offhand punch to his gut. He startles mid-drink, water dribbling down his chin and all over the front of his favorite AC/DC shirt. 

“What the – hey, you think you could’ve led with that maybe?!” Tony calls after her, but she’s long gone and far from caring. He grabs a hand towel from the rack and dabs at his wet clothes. “JARVIS! When did the Captain get here?”

“Approximately forty-five minutes ago, sir. I greeted him and directed him toward the gymnasium.” 

“Thanks for the heads up on that one, buddy.” 

“Captain Rogers has been cleared to use the facilities for over two weeks, sir; I was not aware that his presence need be announced.”

“In those two weeks, has he been here once? _One_ time?” This question is rhetorical and JARVIS knows enough to remain silent. “My standing invitation has been repeatedly stood up. Next time, announce it, kay?”

“I will make sure to do so, sir.”

Instead of making his way to the training level, Tony seeks out Bruce in R&D. They’ve been working on a global sweep and alert system that will notify Bruce of any Tesseract-like changes in the earth’s gamma output. The glowing blue death cube and its endless energy should be safely ensconced in the Asgardian treasure chamber, but after the havoc the thing has wreaked, neither of them want to take any chances of missing an unexpected return. 

Bruce has slowly been perfecting the rushed algorithm that they’d thrown together during Loki’s attack; a few more tests and the system might be ready to permanently implement. 

Bruce looks up from his work as Tony enters. He lifts his glasses from where they sit crookedly on his nose and pockets them carefully. 

“Don’t stop on my account, big boy.” Tony holds up his hands and Bruce raises an eyebrow, lets out a small sigh. 

“So you know Steve’s here?” Bruce asks plainly. Tony can’t imagine he’s such an easy read, but of all the new acquaintances he’s collected as of late, Bruce is the one who seems to be riding the same wavelength. 

Most of the time, anyway. The Other Guy kinda has his own shtick. 

“Yes, I was just informed of that fact. Belatedly, I might add.” He glares at nothing in particular; it’s hard to aim a withering stare at JARVIS. “Did you talk to him?”

“To Steve?” Bruce shakes his head, then shrugs and nods a little. “I was in the middle of something and I got the sense he didn’t want to interrupt. We exchanged pleasantries, that was about it.”

“Huh.” Tony contemplates this for a moment, and then glances around the lab. “Why was he down here? Gym’s three floors up.” Tony shoots Bruce a quizzical look. 

“I think…I think maybe he felt weird about letting himself in and using your gym without even saying hello to anyone? The guy’s polite.” Bruce sounds unsure about his theory, but to Tony the basic hypothesis seems correct. 

“Well, let’s hope the twenty-first century can knock that out of him. Being polite gets you nowhere.” 

“It can get you somewhere, Tony. Just maybe nowhere you want to go.”

“Are you getting philosophical on me, Banner? You should stop it, it’s not a good look on you.” Tony lifts himself up and sits on one of the counters, jostling a rack of vials nearby. He picks up a stack of Bruce’s paperwork and rifles through it – most of it is SI memos and guidelines, but there are some magazines, and one single letter addressed directly to Bruce in a decidedly feminine scrawl. No return address. Curious, he lifts it up to the light but the paper’s too thick to make anything out. 

Dissatisfied, he tosses it back onto the pile and picks up a couple of empty test tubes instead, rolling them between his palms. Bruce glances at him warily. 

“I really feel like I shouldn’t have to tell you to be careful in here.” 

Tony smirks, swings his legs a little. 

“I know what you’re cleared to work on and what projects you have checked out. There’re no flesh-eating viruses or crazy genetic mutation experiments lurking about.”

“But you _are_ sitting near a pretty resistant strain of Ebola.” Bruce nods to a culture dish a few inches from Tony’s hand. Tony instinctively moves in the other direction but then stops, knowing better.

“You do not have Ebola in here.” He eyes Bruce, jokingly wary. “Was that the Other Guy poking through and being an ass or are you finally loosening up?” Tony jumps down from the table; Bruce returns his easy grin with a shy but pleased one of his own. 

Bruce, he understands. They’re simpatico. He gets where the dude’s coming from.

Steve, on the other hand…well, okay, he knows exactly where Steve’s coming from, down to the day and the year and the approximate time, and he still has no clue what the hell to do with the guy.

“You should just go talk to him. You invited him here, after all.” And there Bruce goes again. Tony’s gonna have to figure out if there’s some facial tic that gives him away. He’ll have to think about Steve in front a mirror or something and see exactly what’s going on up there. 

He twitches his face purposefully once to try and get rid of whatever’s happening and then responds. 

“I _did_ invite him. Weeks ago. Isn’t there some statute of limitation on hospitality?” 

“Did you formally rescind said invitation?” Bruce inquires, taking his glasses out of his pocket and getting back to work as Tony backs toward the door and into the hallway. 

“Well…no.”

“Then go say hi.”

“But I don’t want to.”

“Yeah…except you do.”

“You’re a bossy know-it-all and I don’t think I like it.”

“Bye, Tony.” Bruce waves him off and brings something new up on the holo, his attention already diverted. Tony opens his mouth to snap back but Bruce reaches out without looking, pushes a button on the desktop, and the door whooshes closed. 

Bruce is clearly getting too comfortable here.

*******

Tony pauses in the entryway, noting that the door has been left wide open. Apparently Steve hasn’t realized that the whole purpose of these things is not just to keep people out, but so you can hear when someone comes in.

So that someone can’t stand in the shadows and stare at you for a good long while before you even realize you have company. 

Tony doesn’t mean to watch. What he meant to do was come down here, hustle and bustle his way through a meet and greet with the Cap and then be on his way. He has things to do, surely – Pepper always insists he does – and Rogers wouldn’t be expecting an _Oprah_ share and care in the middle of the gym, so chances are the good captain would be fine with a brush pass. 

But he’s never seen Steve in a completely unguarded moment, with the mask of Captain America figuratively cast aside, and it catches him entirely off guard. He leans against the wall and allows himself to scrutinize. His mind instantly rattles off a list of descriptives – intense, wired, focused, tightly-wound, determined – and they’re all pretty much synonyms for that dark look on Steve’s admittedly handsome face as he beats the ever-living crap out of the punching bag. 

Yet he doesn’t strike Tony as angry. He’s just… _raw_. 

Like something torn open, a deep gash ripped by serrated edges. Still bleeding. 

The pace of his punches increases in speed and ferocity and Tony suddenly feels like he needs to make his presence known; he’s intruding on something private and his gut twists with the knowledge that he’s seeing something he wasn’t meant to see. 

“It’s probably not much use to practice on something that doesn’t hit back.” Tony clears his throat and speaks loudly over the whump-thump-thump of Steve’s fists hitting sand and leather and vinyl over and over again. 

Steve breaks his pace with a quick-footed grace, stilling the bag immediately and turning to face him. Tony’s never seen a smile so fake, and that counts the millions of his own he’s thrown out there, the ones that have been plastered on magazine covers and have placated talk show hosts. 

Steve’s grin has a metric ton of all the best intentions without an ounce of actual happiness to back it up. 

“Tony, hello. Didn’t hear you come in.” 

“Yeah, probably hard to, over your Rocky impersonation,” Tony gestures first to his own ears and then to the punching bag. “Adrian…!” He Stallone-mumbles, even though he knows Steve won’t get it. He tries to keep his own expression as level and easygoing as possible as he saunters toward the center of the gym where Steve stands. 

“I…” Steve starts, looking unsure, and Tony knows there’s an apology coming at him sooner rather than later. 

“It’s about time you made your way over here,” He sidesteps smoothly. “Though I think maybe we should get Bruce down here to Hulk out. It ain’t easy being green but he needs to give it a shot, and you need a run for your money. Y’know, at least until Thor drops in and you have an approximation of a more likely enemy. The Hulk _is_ a bit one of a kind and all.” 

Steve runs a hand through his sweat-drenched hair and glances down at the floor. His cheeks are surprisingly flushed. Tony wonders exactly how hard and how long a man enhanced with super serum has to work out before he sweats like this. Steve’s white t-shirt clings to his chest, droplets of perspiration clinging to his biceps and dripping from his face. 

“Not always about who packs the most punch when it comes to a fight,” Steve replies a bit sheepishly. “Gotta be quick on your feet and outthink your opponent. I’m sure I have as much to learn from you or Natasha as I would from Thor or Dr. Banner.” 

There’s a compliment for him in there along with the old-fashioned modesty and cautious phrasing but Tony decides not to dig it out. It’s easier to let it lie. Steve lifts the edge of his shirt to dry off his face and Tony’s focus snaps downward to the exposed skin, to the set of sculpted abs that are a permanent fixture of Steve’s perfect physique. It’s a mixture of self-conscious jealousy and a bit of admiration, not lust, which makes his mind go blank. 

_Definitely_ not lust. 

He’s fine with having an aesthetic appreciation for anyone beautiful, but thinking about Steve within a sensual, physical framework sets off warning signals in every quadrant of his brain. He’s reckless and all, but letting sexual attraction pile on the already towering heap of conflicting emotions he has for this guy would be beyond willfully dumb. He can’t afford to think that way. 

“This gym has the best and the newest equipment available.” Tony gestures around to all of the machines that Steve has ignored. “You should really give some a try.”

“Didn’t want to touch anything, honestly, was afraid I might break something important. Punching bag seemed the safest bet.” 

Tony nearly offers to show Steve how they work, but catches himself. 

“I’ll have my guy Happy come ‘round sometime and give you a run down on all the dos and don’ts. They’re all very simple, really, but he knows all the ins and outs and quirks better than I do.” He looks around the room again, catches sight of Steve in the mirrored wall, and makes a mental note to get Steve some workout clothes that aren’t army issue slacks and thin t-shirts painted on his body. Maybe a pair of loose-fitting basketball shorts and an XXL tee. That’d be so much easier to deal with. 

Tony crosses the room and pulls a clean towel from a cabinet, tosses it to Steve. 

“Dry off, Wonder Boy. You should come up and have some breakfast.” He nods his head toward the door but Steve shoots him down. 

“Appreciate that, Tony, it’s very kind, but I already ate.”

“At five this morning, I’m sure. Before your pre-dawn workout and your mid-morning marathon.”

“Are you having someone keep tabs on me?” Steve’s shocked, and Tony lets out a surprised shout of laughter.

“Hell, Cap, I was just kidding. Tell me you didn’t really.” 

“Exercise keeps my mind clear,” Steve replies a bit defensively. “Besides, Fury’s been limiting my time with the clean up, so I don’t have much else to do.” 

Tony almost asks what Steve means by clean up when he realizes Steve’s talking about the Chitauri mess. He’d sent a whole army of workmen and machinery from SI to assist, but of course Steve’s probably been down there digging through rubble on his hands and knees. 

He aims the conversation elsewhere. 

“What did you used to do?”

“Pardon?”

“Before you got hit with the super juice, before you became Mr. All-American Hero. You did something, right? A job? A hobby?”

Steve hesitates for an obviously pained moment and his face kind of crumples, like he doesn’t want to answer and is trying hard to cough up a very unnatural lie. 

“Out with it, Stevie. Don’t tell me, milk man? Paper delivery boy? No…please tell me that you worked at the corner soda shoppe and wore one of those funny white paper hats and a red bowtie? I bet the girls just loved you.”

“I drew,” Steve spits out, stopping Tony’s guesses from growing ever more ludicrous. “I mean…I draw. S’pose it’s merely a hobby now. But before…it was my job.”

“You were an artist?” Tony tries to imagine it, but it’s a lot like trying to picture a stereotypical high school quarterback painting happy little trees. The only thing that comes to mind is one of those silverback gorillas you see in the documentaries that learn how to sign and finger-paint. Steve as an artist does not compute. He swallows down his disbelief and tries to imagine Steve as he was, _then_. “What did you draw?”

“Drew for the comics, mainly.” Steve’s already blushing; Tony’s reaction is apparently a foregone conclusion. If only to remain unpredictable, Tony bites back the quip that’s on the tip of his tongue and merely nods, turning the thought over in his mind a few times before speaking. Steve seems surprised by the momentary silence.

“Like…for Superman? Batman?” Tony finally prompts, proud of himself for sounding genuinely interested rather than mocking. His default tone can sometimes be read as mocking. Or so he’s been told. Numerous times, by many, many different people. 

“Oh, golly no. Nothing as good as all that. Barely made enough to pay my bills. If Dr. Erskine hadn’t come along I probably would’ve had to find another line of work.” 

“One day you’re drawing superheroes, the next, you _are_ one. Bet in your wildest dreams you never saw that coming.” He forgets what he was going to say next as he realizes that he and Steve have walked right out of the gym and have somehow found themselves waiting for the elevator. He even unthinkingly pushed the up button whilst they were talking. Steve is unwrapping the tape from his hands. He almost asks Steve how they got here and where they’re going but then remembers they’re going to go eat and it was his idea.

Strange how that happened. 

The elevator doors slide open and they walk into the small compartment side by side. He smirks to himself as he notices Steve standing at soldier’s ease, feet a shoulder width apart and hands folded behind his back. Tony lounges against the wall lazily and lets Steve feel him looking. 

It only takes two floors before Steve moves his gaze from the numbered lights above the doors to sneak a sideways glance at Tony. 

“What is it?” His smile is small and nervous, slightly crooked. 

“Nothing.” Tony shrugs. It’s a bit mean to deliberately keep the guy unsettled, but he can’t stand side-by-side on solid ground with Steve. In every situation with every person, someone always has the upper hand, so it best be him. His sense of self-preservation is innate and overwhelmingly strong.

Not strong enough, however, to stop him from making scrambled eggs and serving them up like he’s Steve’s personal June Cleaver. He says as much to Steve as he’s plating everything and gets a blank look in return. 

“I really gotta start boning up on some pre-Eisenhower references here, don’t I?” Tony remarks, plopping down on the stool next to Steve and shoveling a fork-full of eggs into his mouth. 

“I know General Eisenhower.”

“President Eisenhower,” Tony amends around a mouthful of food. “And did you actually know him? Cause even I’d have to admit that’d kinda be awesome in a Forrest Gump meets JFK kind of way.”

“Not personally. We never crossed paths.” 

“You never really punched Hitler in the face, either, did you.” Tony lowers his voice joke-conspiratorially. Steve blanches. 

“You’ve heard about the stage shows, then.” Steve mumbles, disappointed, and Tony shifts in his seat, feeling like he just kicked the family dog. 

“To be fair, it’s happened in many stage shows since. And television shows. And movies. There’ve been many fake punches thrown at many fake Hitlers. Can never have enough Hitler TKOs, if you ask me.” Tony presses on, not wanting to linger over the embarrassed look on Steve’s face. “Fury did catch you up to speed on the whole brand of merchandising that went down, y’know, after you supposedly did? The other lug heads they got to pretend to be you, the comics, all the lunchboxes and the bed sheets and the trading cards-“

Steve puts up a hand to cut him off and Tony halts mid-sentence. Steve pushes his plate of food away and leans back in his chair. 

He shouldn’t have said trading cards. Steve knows about the trading cards. 

“I met one of ‘em once. I was like, oh, maybe eight, nine? I was at Macy’s with my mom and you were there. Well, not you, but ‘you’. I thought it was pretty awesome at the time, got my picture taken and everything. Of course, dear old dad threw it in the fire, or else I’d pull it out and we’d have a good laugh over it now.” Tony needs to stop talking but he can’t find the off switch. Every word out of his mouth is making things worse. These aren’t things he means to share or that Steve needs to hear. He picks his fork back up and moves what’s left of his eggs around the plate. “You’re better. I mean…not like I sit around rating Captain Americas or anything – ”

“It’s okay, Tony.” Steve’s smile is sad and half-hearted, now. “I know what they used me for after I was gone. Heck, there were comics and film reels and all that before – I was part of it. I knew what they were using me for back when I was alive.”

“You’re still alive,” Tony points out, but Steve doesn’t reply. Tony sighs and drums his fingers against the edge of his plate, then drops an elbow to the counter, resting his head against his hand. He tries to switch back to a casual tone, like he’s gently poking fun. “Hate to say it, Cap, but you almost sounded cynical just then.”

Steve shrugs and Tony thinks he seems small for a man so large. But then Steve sits up a bit straighter, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath. 

“It’s best not to let what others think of you define who you are,” he states, pushing back from the counter. Tony knows Steve means the people who dolled him up and trekked him out as a one trick pony to sell those war bonds, but for a second he thinks Steve’s talking about him and his own views on the Captain. Suddenly Steve’s all polite again, shield up, armor on. “Thank you very much for breakfast, Stark. Probably best I get going now. I’m sure that you have more important things to do with your time than entertain me.”

“I hardly feel like this was entertaining.” It’s unbearably awkward; maybe they should shake hands or maybe he should just let Steve wander off or maybe he should walk him to the exit, he doesn’t know. A long elevator ride to the ground floor sounds like a terrible idea. Way too much time for him to say something else wrong. 

“Tony, there you are. Good morning,” Pepper walks into the kitchen, the quick, efficient click of her high heels and the brightness of her smile instantly sending a tidal wave of relief through Tony’s entire body. 

“Thank god, Pepper,” he can’t help but say aloud. “Pep, Pepper, my love, my beauty, good morning, wonderful to see you.” He stands up quickly and clumsily, practically racing to her. “You know Captain America, don’t you?”

“We’ve never officially met, but yes, hello, Captain.” Pepper gives Tony a strange, suspicious look and shrugs off his over eager greeting. She offers her hand to Steve, exuding that welcoming warmth that Tony treasures her for. 

“Steve Rogers, ma’am,” Steve takes her hand; Tony’s surprised he doesn’t kiss it in some quaint old-timey gesture. But he gives it a quick, firm shake, accompanied by a pleasant but staid smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Potts. I’ve heard nothing but wonderful things about you.”

“Likewise.” 

Steve seems set off-kilter by that, like he can’t imagine Tony saying anything good to Pepper about him. 

“Not from me,” Tony interrupts, seeing a chance to get things back into their accepted groove. “I don’t say good things about anyone. As policy.”

“His ego can’t merely be big, it has to be the only one in the room,” Pepper states dryly, but the affection underlying her words is unmistakable. Tony knows she adores him, really. 

“Steve was just on his way out. Pepper, would you mind walking him down?” Tony bats his eyelashes once at her, looking as innocent as possible. Pepper and Steve both look at him with surprisingly similar expressions that call bullshit. 

“I can find my way out, Miss Potts, no need to go to such trouble,” Steve says so very courteously and Pepper reaches over, puts a comforting hand on his forearm. 

“It’s no trouble at all. _Really_ ,” she adds, tossing a look over her shoulder at Tony as she guides Steve toward the elevator. “And call me Pepper, please.”

Tony waits until he’s sure they’ve gone before letting out a long exhale, trying to will some of the stress from his body. He leaves the dirty dishes on the counter and makes his way into the living room, collapsing onto his back on the couch. 

He stares at the ceiling, arms folded in toward his chest and his fingers tapping out idle rhythms against the metal and glass of the arc reactor, until he hears the elevator doors open and Pepper clicking her way back into the room. 

“He’s really a very lovely man,” Pepper declares, taking a seat on the oversized armchair an arm’s length away. Tony rolls his eyes and moves a pillow behind his head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what.”

It’s Pepper’s turn to roll her eyes.

“That thing we haven’t been talking about for the past month. That Steve-shaped thing that just got on his motorcycle and went back to Brooklyn.”

“When did Cap get a motorcycle?” 

“Tony.” Pepper sounds exasperated, but she gets up from her seat and fits herself precariously on the edge of the couch, reaching out and running her hand through his hair. “I understand if you don’t want to discuss it with me…but it might do you some good to at least acknowledge to _someone_ -“

“Oh please, Pepper, stop,” Tony cuts her off. He hates it when she chooses her words carefully, tiptoeing around him. It’s always how he knows something is really worrying her, because usually she and Rhodey are the only ones to call him on his crap and if she’s hedging... 

And then she stops hedging.

“But don’t you think it’s horribly unfair to punish a man for things he’s not really responsible for? Especially without even telling him _why_ …I mean, it’s not his fault that your father was -”

“That’s not what I think. I don’t think that.” Tony sits up and Pepper’s hand falls away. He doesn’t look at her; he knows she’s going to have that pinched, hurt look on her face that makes him feel like the worst man on earth. He sighs. “I’m not punishing him for anything. He just reminds me of things I don’t want to be reminded of. That’s all. I’ll get over it. I’m _getting_ over it.”

“Really.”

“I invited the man over, I made him eggs! Me! In a kitchen! Is that not the perfect picture of someone getting over it?” He swings his legs around till his feet hit the ground and Pepper slides easily into the empty space now made beside him.

“It’s a perfect picture of something, all right, though I’m not sure what.” 

Tony gives her a half-hearted smirk. Pepper slides a hand down his back, moving in a gentle circle as she peers at him through the fringe of her bangs. 

“So, that was what I walked in on here?” She prompts him softly. “The cathartic breakfast of champions?”

“Pretty much. Sans Wheaties. And catharsis.”

“So it went that well.”

“As you’d expect.” He rubs his face, feeling tired. “I awkwardly vomited out inappropriate things until the Captain just as awkwardly made his excuses and beat tail outta here.”

“A rousing success then.” Pepper rests her head on his shoulder, runs her hand down his arm until she twines her fingers with his. “Don’t worry. You figure out a solution to every problem eventually; you’ll find a solution to this. You’ll make it work.”

Tony leans his head against hers and admits to her what he probably couldn’t admit to anyone else. 

“That’s just it, Pep. I don’t even know that I want to.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Burgers. Now.” 

That was the only warning Steve received before Natasha was grabbing his leather coat from the hook and shoving him out his front door. 

Clint is leaning against the wall on the landing, a smirk blossoming across his face.

“ _That_ was how you were going to convince him? That was your grand plan?” He laughs at Natasha, who just continues manhandling Steve down the staircase. Steve manages to get out a few sputtering words of protest, but whatever’s going on here he’s pretty sure it’s not worth yelling over. “I’m sorry, bro, I think what Nat was trying to say is: ‘We’re going out for dinner, would you like to come?’”

Natasha pushes him out onto the busy street, Clint following at much more leisurely pace. Steve straightens out his red and white-checkered shirt, adjusting the buttons and the collar, and now that his world is steady and he’s not being shoved down a flight of stairs, he stops and takes Clint and Natasha in. 

They’re both wearing mostly black; Steve’s learned over the past few weeks that that’s just what they usually do. But they’re casual, not on the job: Clint has on a plain black tee and a pair of dark jeans. Natasha has on a rather short black skirt, black hose, and a maroon tank. They both slip on heavily tinted sunglasses and leave Steve goofily squinting at them against the backdrop of the setting sun. 

“Um, hi. Hello. How are you both?” Steve asks pointedly. “Good to see you. What is going on?”

“What Clint said.” Natasha states simply, her arms crossed over her chest. “I could play you, Steve, persuade you, even trick you into thinking it’s your idea, but I don’t like playing my friends. Do you know any good burger joints nearby? I want a burger.”

“What makes you think you couldn’t just call me, or text me, and ask? It’s only dinner and I would have been glad to see you,” Steve is perplexed. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and makes sure it’s still working. It is – he has another text from Miss Darcy Lewis, an associate of Thor’s who he’s never actually met but has taken it upon herself to keep him abreast of important current events. She seems particularly interested in the Jersey Shore; in his time no one thought Jersey was all that neat but things have clearly changed. “And contrary to what you all like to think, I do know how to use this thing.”

“That really would’ve worked?” Natasha quirks an eyebrow up at him, a hint of a smile playing at her full, red lips. “I’ll remember that for next time. Just. Ask.” Natasha rolls the notion over a few times on her tongue as if it’s a novel idea she’d never considered, and Steve realizes he’s being mocked.

Steve grins good-naturedly, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Okay, so you’ve made your point.”

“What point would that be, Cap? That our team leader avoids team headquarters at all costs? That he ignores nearly every request to take part in social gatherings of any kind?”

“I cannot believe these words are coming out of your mouth, Tash,” Clint chimes in with a snort. “I never thought I’d see the day when you berated someone for not being a joiner.” 

“Not. Helping.” Natasha grits out, and then focuses her attention back at on Steve. “Really, Cap, what’s it going to take to get you up in the tower? Another world crisis?” 

Steve glances past them toward the end of his street, eyeing the Manhattan skyline across the East River. He can’t see Stark Tower from his place in Vinegar Hill, and for that he has to admit he’s glad. Between Brooklyn’s own jigsaw of tenements, apartment towers and industrial complexes cutting sharp into the sky, all he can catch is a glimpse of the Empire State Building. For a brief moment he can stand on his old street full of run-down three story homes and pretend it’s still the same city he once knew.

“I’ve been to the tower a few times.” Steve rolls up his shirtsleeves and folds his leather jacket over his arm. It’s warm out still; he’d forgotten how the city streets bake in the summer heat. It’s funny though – he’s not really sweating so much as he feels like he _should_ be sweating. That happens a lot, even now, after all this time – his mind at a disconnect with his body. He supposes a part of him will always believe he’s sickly, scrawny Steve, always struggling, always fighting. 

“Just don’t like it there much, if you forgive me for saying so.” Steve turns away from the fragmented view and back to his comrades. “It’s not for me.”

“Nobody says you have to move in there,” Clint mutters. 

“And nobody says you have to like Tony either,” Natasha adds. “Believe me, not many people do.”

“I like Tony fine,” Steve protests to two faces that clearly don’t believe him. “My first impression wasn’t so wonderful but first impressions are often wrong. Things are different now.” Natasha opens her mouth to contradict but Steve doesn’t let her. “However, I clearly make him uncomfortable. Don’t see the point of making a bad situation worse by becoming a constant presence in the man’s own home. Hardly seems fair.”

Natasha stares at him for a good long beat. Or at least Steve assumes that’s what she’s doing, as her sunglasses are so dark he can’t see her eyes. But her face remains impassive and unmoving long enough that he almost asks if she’s all right. Then she snaps back into motion, turning on her heel and heading off down the street. 

“I forgot. I do know a decent place to eat around here.” 

“Just follow her,” Clint shrugs when Steve looks at him questioningly. “It’s so much easier than trying to resist.”

He nudges Steve with an elbow and prompts him on with an easy grin. Out of all the Avengers, he’s known Clint the least amount of time but in his company, Steve feels more at ease than with anyone else. He hasn’t quite put a finger on it yet, but there’s something about him that brings Bucky to mind. 

He tries not to do that though – the endless comparisons to the people he used to know, the friends he used to have. Parallels are easy to find when one’s looking. There are glimpses of Peggy in Natasha’s fierce no-nonsense grace, Dum-Dum’s boisterous fighting joy in Thor’s loud tumble of a laugh, Erskine’s kindness and regret in Bruce’s sad smile, even shades of Phillips in Fury’s strengthening faith in their ragtag team. And Howard…well, he sees Howard in the shadows of everything Tony does. 

He knows Tony wouldn’t like that. 

He needs to stop looking backward with such longing, needs to stop trying to fit these new pieces into an old puzzle. It’s not a good idea and does everyone, both the living and the dead, a grand disservice. 

Nevertheless, he can’t stop himself from liking Clint best, so he falls into step beside him and doesn’t say a word as Natasha leads them to some hole-in-the-wall dive bar off of Tillary.

For the next five hours, Steve is audience to Natasha and Clint swapping stories and trading shots. It’s easy, and it’s clear they’re meaning to entertain, not pressing him to talk. The tales they tell are simpler versions of tangled messes. Highlight reels of the good stuff they care to remember while leaving the rest of it carefully untouched in the dark. He can recognize a whitewash when he sees one. He’s done it often enough himself. 

He eats, they drink. Then he sits and they drink some more. He tells them about the volunteer work he’s been doing, they offer him vague details of the latest missions SHIELD has handed down. Every time he tries to make a departure, one of them finds a way to reel him back in. 

It’s past eleven by the time Steve carries them both out onto the sidewalk, Natasha leaning on his left, Clint on his right. He considers packing them both into a cab and sending them home on their own, but it doesn’t feel right to leave them unguarded with their defenses weakened. There’s a guy leaning in a doorway half a block down, and while it’s probably nothing, he can’t shake the feeling that they’re being watched. He glances over his shoulder one last time and slides in beside Clint. 

“Stark Tower,” Steve tells the cabbie and he twists in his seat to eye Steve for a moment.

“Alright man, but I gotta go ‘cross the bridge and go up through the city rather than take the expressway and hit the tunnel. East side’s still a mess over there from all that crazy alien Avengers shit. Gonna cost you extra.”

“That’s okay.”

“I don’t want you calling some god damn hotline saying I ripped you off-“

“Sir, it’s fine,” Steve assures him, just glad that they’re not being recognized as the ones who took part in the destruction.

Clint spends the majority of the car ride alternating between iterations of “I love you, man,” and “You’re a good guy, Steve,” occasionally reaching out a hand and pinching him on the cheek like someone’s soused grandmother. Natasha leans her head against the window and closes her eyes, a faint smile on her face.

Steve has to admit, he kind of likes it. 

Clint is warbling some circus song by the time Steve deposits him carefully onto the sofa in the communal living room. Natasha sinks down beside him, mumbling something drowsily in Russian. Steve’s a bit rusty, but he thinks she says something about wanting to go to the ballet, or maybe being in the ballet. 

“I’ll get you both some water.” Steve makes sure they’re sitting upright and steady before going to the kitchen to track down bottles for them. He rummages through the fridge to find a couple unopened Smart waters. When he turns back around, he’s face to face with Tony. 

“Fancy running into you here.” The small furrow between Tony’s eyebrows is the only sign he’s as caught off guard by Steve’s presence as Steve is by his. 

“I’m just getting some water for Clint and Natasha,” Steve explains too hurriedly, gesturing toward the living room. He frowns, wondering why he sounds and feels so guilty for being in Tony’s kitchen right now. He’s not doing anything wrong. “We were…”

His words trail off as he catches sight of Natasha and Clint standing up, somehow miraculously sober, and walking straight down the hallway to the elevator with unwavering steps and nary a look back. Steve lets his shoulders slump.

“And…I’ve been had.” He sighs and sets the water down on the countertop. He has to smile, because they really played a good game. He believed every second of it. Tony waits for him to explain. 

“We went out tonight and Clint and Natasha had a little too much to drink, so I brought them back here.”

“Yeah…I have a feeling Natasha hasn’t been drunk since she was twelve. At least.” Tony chuckles, pointing at Steve knowingly. “She certainly knew how to work you.” He lifts his phone out of his pocket and hits a few buttons on screen. “I’d like to know how they got JARVIS to notify me that the communal kitchen was on fire, though. That’s a pretty neat trick considering it’s my own highly classified programming. It had to have been Bruce. Quite the duplicitous gang of friends we’ve got.”

“You don’t seem very worried for someone who thought his kitchen was on fire.”

Tony waves off any concern.

“JARVIS can take care of the fiery inferno part, I just came down here to survey the damage.” Tony looks around the perfectly pristine and not-at-all singed room and sighs. “We’ve been Parent Trapped.” 

Steve has no idea what that actually means, but he can take a guess that it somehow involves their friends conspiring to get him and Tony in the same place at the same time without either of them begging off. 

“To be honest, I’m surprised they didn’t lock us up together somewhere. This is positively tame considering the players involved.” Tony comments. He walks to the line where the kitchen floor meets the living room carpet and waves his arm across it tentatively, testing the imaginary barrier. “Nope, we’re good. We can totally get out of here.”

Tony still takes his first step slowly, looking around like he expects a last minute attack or an electric shock or some other kind of deterrent. He smirks, unimpressed. 

“Wow. Absolutely _no_ follow through.” Tony slides his phone back into his pocket and throws a glance back toward Steve. “Well, this has been fun. See you later, Cap.”

Steve tells himself he shouldn’t be hurt that Tony’s walking away so easily and quickly, but he kind of is. He stares after Tony, at a loss for what to do now. He supposes he should leave. It’s pointless to stand here alone. 

He puts the bottles of water back into the refrigerator and closes the door slowly. The whole floor is quiet enough that he can hear the whir of the ice machine working inside the freezer. The AC clicks on then, cool air seeping from the vents high above his head. 

Rooms used to be silent. Nothing’s really silent anymore. 

The common room is only six floors from the top platform of the tower. Steve slowly crosses to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that allow him a bird’s eye view of the city, looking south down the length of Manhattan. It’s a breathtakingly beautiful sight, even now, maybe even more so. He can mark off 42nd Street, 34th Street, 23rd Street, even Union Square these days, just by the skyline; it’s reassuring. On the nights when Bucky’s attempts at double dates inevitably turned into Steve wandering off on his own, he’d go to the base of the Brooklyn Bridge and stare at Manhattan as the sun went down and the buildings slowly lit up, bright windows climbing pitter patter toward the sky. The city was such a short walk away but it seemed so far, then. It made him feel small and unimportant. 

Even though he's looking down at the city now, he feels dwarfed by its size and power once again. Just another someone lost in a city full of everyone. 

He takes a deep breath and puts his fingertips against the thick glass, resting his forehead gently between his hands and looking straight down. It’s a long drop.

Their intentions had been kind. Clint, Natasha, and apparently Bruce went through a lot of pretense to bring him here tonight, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll never fit in here without Tony. 

Tony’s the key and Tony’s locked him out. 

The others must expect him to break down the door and get in there with them, but that’s not who he is or how he does things. He’s stubborn and determined, but he’s not thoughtless, or dumb. They don’t get that his only option is to wait until Tony opens up. 

Steve pushes away from the window and turns to survey the empty room. Legs feeling heavy, he turns off the solitary lamp that had been left on and in the darkness, sits down on the oversized couch. 

It’s not comfortable, exactly, but it’s the same amount of empty he feels when he’s at his own place so he figures it’s just as well. 

He must fall asleep because the next thing he knows, he’s being gently shaken awake. Clint’s hand is on his shoulder and his smile is genuine as he holds out a mug full of fresh coffee. 

He’d slumped over sideways in the night and he’s hugging one of the throw pillows against his chest. Steve blinks slowly and sits up, taking a moment to remember where he is and why he’s there. He rubs the back of his sore neck and looks up at Clint. 

“Funny, you’re not at all hungover,” he comments and Clint’s smile grows wider. 

“You stayed.”

Clint says it in a tone that sounds a little _grateful_ and Steve feels like he should have a better response than the small shrug he offers. 

“You’re a good guy, Steve.” Clint bumps his shoulder and offers his free hand to help Steve up from the couch. Steve doesn’t really need any assistance but he takes Clint’s hand anyway, takes the coffee too. 

As he stands, a loud clatter comes from the kitchen behind him. 

“Good Captain! You have awoken! Come, I have made myriad flavors of delicious pastry to break fast with you all.” 

“Thor’s back,” Clint tells him needlessly. “And he’s discovered Toaster Strudel.”

“It is the sister food of the Pop Tart and it is most glorious,” Thor announces, and then squeezes five packets of frosting onto the single pastry on his plate. 

“He’s moving in too.” 

Steve smiles and lets Clint’s sly _too_ slide by without comment.

*******

Natasha has him pinned to the ground, wrists above his head as she straddles his waist, when Tony walks into the gym. He stops in his tracks so fast Steve can imagine the sound of screeching brakes.

“Whoa, sorry, am I interrupting something?” Tony is kidding, but just barely. Natasha rolls her eyes before she grins down at Steve and lets him flip her over. He thinks _lets_ because he feels her give, knows she wouldn’t go that easy. 

“Stark.” Natasha greets him as she rises from the mat with seemingly no effort at all. Steve gets up with considerably less grace. “Come to get some of that much-needed practice, I hope?”

“You’re back rather soon.” Tony’s gaze darts past her, landing squarely on Steve. Steve brushes some chalk and dust from his borrowed sweats, adjusts his rumpled t-shirt. He has to remind himself that Tony’s not here for inspection and it shouldn’t matter if he’s a mess. 

“I never left.” Steve corrects, surprised that Tony didn’t know that already. Tony’s face is carefully blank. Steve looks away as fast as he can, not wanting anything on his own face to be accidentally read as a challenge. “I crashed on the couch, I hope that’s okay.” 

Tony doesn’t reply so Steve gets back into fighter’s stance and puts his fists up in proper cover. He beckons Natasha forward and she obliges him, slipping close and trying to land a hit to his midsection before attempting to use her mind numbing flexibility to hook kick him around the neck. Luckily he sees it coming and uses her own momentum to send her crashing to the floor. 

He can’t help cringing a little and he offers her a hand up before he can think better of it. 

“Good,” Natasha thumps him on the shoulder when she’s back on two feet. “And you barely looked guilty at all that time.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you can take it,” Steve responds quickly. “I know you can. And I’m sure if it came down to the wire, you’re far more skilled than I am. But-“

“Still feels weird to hit a girl,” Natasha finishes for him. 

“How archaic.” Tony mumbles. “Kick his ass for that, Nat.” He pulls a metal folding chair from against the wall and unfolds it, flips it backwards, straddles it as he pulls out his phone and hits a few buttons. “I’ll post it on YouTube.”

“Don’t mind it, really,” Natasha shrugs, causing both Steve and Tony to stop and stare at her. “It’s rare to find a gentleman these days.” She shuffles in close and gives Steve an open-palmed double tap to the cheek, more of a friendly pat than a strike. 

“Color me stunned.” 

“Well, Steve’s reluctance to hit me isn’t based on him viewing me as a wilting flower in need of protection. He knows I can hold my own. But he respects women and that’s not misogynistic, it’s simply…nice.”

“Well, Chatty Cathy, that’s the longest I’ve ever heard you speak voluntarily. Cap, you really bring out _The View_ in her.”

“Of course, that doesn’t mean I don’t have to beat the nice out of him,” Natasha tacks on as if Tony never spoke, moving from side to side to engage Steve once again now that she’s said her piece. “For the good of the team and all.” 

She moves like she’s going to spin a crescent kick up high and at the last second continues full circle and comes around to drop down low, sweeping Steve’s feet out from under him. He lands flat on his back with a resounding thud. 

“For the good of the team, huh?” Steve asks with a slight wheeze, looking up at her as she towers above him, smirking just a little. She grabs his hand and helps him up. 

“Hey, not all bad guys are guys.” 

“Sure that’s true, but-“

“What she means, Cap, is if you’re willing to kick a guy in the balls, you gotta be ready to kick a gal there too. Even if Momma told you not to.” 

“Stark.” Steve snaps at him warningly, his face warming in embarrassment. The man’s being crass for the sake of being crass. That has a time and a place and it’s not here. 

“In the balls, Stark?” Natasha chuckles, deep and throaty, beside him. 

“You get my gist, you really want me to be anatomically correct in front of the good Captain here?” He waves her off, and then gestures toward Steve. “Now c’mon, re-commence the beat down. This is getting boring fast.”

“What brought you down here?” Steve asks instead, crossing the mat to where Tony sits at the edge. “If you were looking to train for awhile, we can get out of your hair.”

“Or you can sub in,” Natasha suggests, already picking up her black duffel bag from by the mirrored wall. “I’m needed at HQ at 1600.”

“Well we were just about done anyway.” If Natasha’s bolting, so is he. She’s barely making an effort to conceal this attempt to leave him alone with Tony and Steve resents her for it. Last night had been such an elaborate ruse that he’d been slightly charmed, but her dashing out of here like the gym is on fire is a bludgeon past subtle. 

“I was just gonna hop on the treadmill for a bit, give the ol’ ticker a workout.” Tony stands up, pushing the chair aside. He stretches overdramatically. 

Natasha arches an eyebrow at Tony and taps the arc reactor through the fabric of his thin black tank as she passes by him. Tony frowns at her unspoken observation.

“It’s _altered_ , Nat, it’s not _not there_.” 

She turns from Tony, spinning on her heel and coming in close to Steve. To Steve’s surprise, she rises on tiptoe to peck him on the cheek. 

“Stark has a treadmill in his own gym, on his own floor,” she says quietly, lips still brushing his face, and then ducks past him toward the exit. 

Tony watches her go, his brow slightly furrowed. He couldn’t have heard what she’d said, but it’s obvious the kiss and the whisper have his interest piqued. 

Steve stares at Tony in the silence that follows, at a loss. Tony usually talks incessantly so when he stops, it stalls everything. 

“So.” Steve says, pulling at the frayed edge of the dirty tape on his hands. “I can go.” He gestures over his shoulder in the direction Natasha just went. 

“Or I can set you up a cot down here if you like.” Tony replies. Steve’s face must show his confusion at the offer because Tony clarifies. “Since the gym seems to be the only place you ever visit.”

“I was in the kitchen last night,” Steve counters, letting the _and you couldn’t leave fast enough_ go unsaid. 

“Yeah. Well.” Tony avoids looking at him. “Here you are in the gym again.”

“Tasha wanted to go a few rounds.”

“Tasha.” Tony smiles to himself, shaking his head. “Never heard anyone dare call her that before.”

“You call her Nat.”

“Only because I first knew her as Natalie, Pepper’s assistant, and _not_ as Black Widow, the crazy butt-kicking spy assassin.” Tony points out. “And also because I know she doesn’t _want_ me to call her Nat, and I like being irritating. I’m guessing that my reasons aren’t exactly in line with your reasons.”

“My reason is she told me to.”

“And you do what you’re told.”

“Not always.” Steve can hear an edge sharpening in Tony’s voice and knows this could easily go somewhere not so good. “I do have a mind of my own.”

“Never said you didn’t.”

Steve bites back the urge to point out that Tony has, in fact, said such things before, then takes a deep breath and lets that all go. 

“She likes you,” Tony says after a long pause. He walks slowly across the wide room, keeping a few feet of space between them as he passes by. “Some folks consider her a good judge of character, so you should take that as a compliment.”

“I do.” Steve feels oddly like he’s reassuring Tony of pure intentions toward Natasha, like Tony thinks Natasha’s misjudged this time and is expecting Steve to prove him right in his doubts. Steve considers which path he should take with this and opts to take the one that leads back to Tony. “She was wrong about you, though.”

“Hmm, what’s that?” Tony clearly fakes distraction, climbing up on the treadmill and fiddling with a few buttons. 

“Natasha was wrong about you. When she concluded that Iron Man would be a valuable addition to the team, but Tony Stark wouldn’t? She was wrong.”

“Well I don’t know about that,” Tony mumbles underneath the beeping of settings being adjusted. The belt slowly starts to move under Tony’s feet and Steve rolls his eyes. So many of these newfangled machines are ridiculous. The point of running is to get somewhere, or at the very least _get away_ from somewhere. He spent enough of his life refusing to run away that that’s one thing he’s sure of. You either stand up and stay, or you run.

Jogging in place is idiotic. 

Without a word, he walks to the wall and pulls the plug out of the socket. The machine whirs down to a pitiful stop. 

There’s a flicker of annoyance that ticks along Tony’s jaw. 

“So what you’re saying is, I shouldn’t trust Nat’s estimation of you and that beneath the goody-two-shoes Boy Scouts of America exterior, you’re actually a dirty rotten scoundrel?” Tony defaults to sarcasm as always. “’Cause I’m the resident cad on this team, I don’t know if we have room for two rakish bachelors.”

“You have Miss Potts, you’re hardly a rakish bachelor anymore. And that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then pray tell, Captain Cryptic, enlighten me as to what you _are_ saying.”

“I’m saying let’s go for a run.”

“That’s a weird interpretation of this conversation. Positively Lynchian in its strange digression. Please don’t tell me you’ve got a dwarf stashed somewhere talking backward.”

“Stark…” Steve sighs, re-adjusting the tape on his hands to give his brain something else to focus on instead of how difficult Tony can be. As a tactic, it fails. “Why do you insist on saying things you _know_ I won’t understand?”

“I don’t know, Cap, why do you insist on being someone I _can’t_ understand?” 

“And again, I don’t have the faintest clue what that means.” Steve can’t stop his exasperation from bleeding through this time. 

“It means that Natasha’s not wrong. She’s never wrong. Not about things like this.” Tony steps down off the treadmill and pushes past Steve, his mood shifting from acerbic and annoyed to downright stormy. 

“Tony-“ Steve grabs him by the crook of the elbow, pulling him back. He does it without thinking and he immediately knows it was the wrong call as he feels Tony tense up underneath his grasp. For a man as tactile as Tony is, he doesn’t like to be touched, not without permission. Steve lets go as quickly as he can and holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. 

“Fine. You don’t understand me. So what do you want to know?”

“That’s not…” Tony mutters, rubbing his elbow like Steve had injured him. Steve is hyper-aware of his own strength though, and he’s sure Tony’s just being petulant. “Playing Barbara Walters isn’t the solution.”

“I don’t know who this Barbara Walters is, but I can tell you that I’m hardly that complicated. I always say exactly what I mean, Tony.” It’s the hard truth, and one that’s gotten him into trouble more often than not. Strong opinions, an overdeveloped sense of right and wrong and a big mouth aren’t the world’s best combination. And it’s a hard truth that he’s sure sends Tony spinning back to that awful confrontation on the helicarrier. Steve can’t lie; he had meant exactly what he said. At the time. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be mistaken. I’m often mistaken. And I’ll admit it when I am.”

Tony’s frown changes then, losing its childish, stubborn quality and settling deep, his eyes going dark. He doesn’t say anything in response. 

“I’m going for a run. Do you want to join me or not?” Steve bluntly asks after the awkwardness stretches on too long and he’s faced with either standing here and staring at his own sneakers, or leaving. 

“They say running is bad for the knees. You’ve missed it, being frozen and all, but doctors now suggest participating in more low-impact exercise. Like yoga. Or water aerobics.”

“So…no then.” Steve sighs, disappointed despite himself. He’d figured on a denial, but he’s tired of quippy blow-offs. It’s as if he’s standing still while Tony does figure 8s around him at high speed. 

He picks up the bag containing his clothes from the night before and tosses it over his shoulder. 

“I’ll be at the res and then back to Brooklyn if you need me.” Steve states. He waits a moment to see if Tony will reply but Tony’s already plugging the treadmill back into the wall. 

“I’m sure Fury will track you down if you’re needed,” Tony finally says, not bothering to look up from the treadmill’s screen. 

It’s then that Steve realizes that just because he means what he says doesn’t mean Tony will _ever_ get what he means.

*******

He’s just reached the top of Heartbreak Hill on his third loop when he notices that the scenery has changed since his previous lap.

Namely that Tony Stark wasn’t waiting for him the last time around. Tony is leaning lazily against the side of a sleek black town car. Steve’s heart lifts a little, hopeful, until he gets close enough to read the closed expression on Tony’s face, eyes hidden by dark purple shades. The gold frames glint in the late afternoon sunlight. 

“Thought you were going to be on the jogging track,” Tony says by way of greeting, unfolding his arms from over his chest and standing up straight. One hand fiddles with the knot of his light lavender tie. 

“Thought I’d take a longer route today. What’s wrong?” Steve doesn’t dally, quickly closing the space left between them. It’s obvious Tony, dressed in a sharp suit and Italian loafers, isn’t here to join him on his run. 

“Get in.” He clicks his jaw tensely as he pops the door and nods his head toward the inside of the car. Steve hesitates, having a bad feeling about where this is all heading. He wishes Tony would look at him but the other man keeps his gaze fixedly elsewhere. Steve brushes past him and climbs into the car.

“What’s this all about?” Steve demands as Tony shuts the door. 

“Ok, Happy.” Tony says quietly, tapping the headrest of the seat in front of him gently. The driver nods, his reply a gentle ease on the gas. Apparently he must be looped in on the direness of whatever is occurring, because he remains quiet and slowly heads for the western edge of the park, then turns southward without instruction. 

“Don’t appreciate your silence here, Tony.” Steve presses, and a brief smirk breaks Tony’s stoic mask. 

“Never thought I’d ever hear those words come outta your mouth, Cap.” 

“Stark. Come on.” Steve twists in his seat to face Tony and Tony waves a finger in a diagonal motion across Steve’s body.

“Put your seatbelt on, Rogers.”

“Put my…?” He’s boggled by Tony’s refusal to answer his question. 

“Seatbelt. I know they’re after your time, but they’re fairly uncomplicated. Pull, snap, click. Make Nader happy.”

“I know what seatbelts –“ Steve stops, deciding it’s not worth the argument. He yanks the belt across his shoulder and his midsection and snaps it into place. “Will you at least tell me where we’re going, please?”

“We’re going to SHIELD HQ. Fury’s called us in. The rest of the gang’s already there, they’re waitin’ on us. I oh-so-luckily got the task of corralling the wayward Cap.” Tony glances at Steve finally, looking him up and down. His nose wrinkles. “You smell, by the way.”

Steve puts his hands on his knees, ignoring Tony’s complaint. He only ran 18 miles and at a damn near leisurely pace. He’s barely broken a sweat, so Tony’s just trying to rile him up and distract him from the matter at hand. 

“You have any idea why we’re being called in?” 

“Not the faintest, sport.” He looks out the window as Happy smoothly navigates the car around Columbus Circle and glides down 8th. Tony’s jaw tenses again, teeth grinding. 

He’s lying. 

Steve’s sure Tony won’t tell him the truth so he angles his own gaze through the tinted glass and watches the city go by. So many people. So many of them still reeling from the Chitauri invasion. He doesn’t know how much more the city can take. 

But when he enters the secure briefing room and not a single soul will meet his eyes, Steve realizes this emergency meeting may not be due to new threat to the populace but may in fact regard something directly pertaining to him. Even Thor is uncharacteristically solemn, his blonde head bowed. 

“Have I done something wrong?” Steve asks, smiling nervously, his pulse picking up. Fury points to the empty chair beside Natasha. 

“Captain Rogers. Please take a seat. We need to have a word.”

“Am I allowed to ask what about?” His stomach is slowly tightening and sinking at the same time, leaving him with a nagging feeling sitting low in his gut. 

“As it’s a matter of national security, I have already briefed your team members with the basic details. However, this case is of particular interest to you and if you prefer, I can have the room cleared while we discuss this.” 

“Is it HYDRA?” It’s the only thing he can think of that would concern him above the rest of the team, the only thing he knows more about than anyone present. Fury frowns, lifting a page of the file sitting in front of him on the table. 

“In an indirect fashion, yes it does concern HYDRA. But it encompasses something much larger.” 

“Prefer it if you told me flat out what this is about. I don’t much like guessing games.” Steve states flatly. “Sir.”

Fury takes a deep breath and closes the folder in front of him, his fingers resting tentatively on its cover.

“Sergeant James Barnes is still alive, Captain.”

If Fury says anything more than that, Steve doesn’t hear it over the roaring in his ears. The man’s mouth is still moving but it’s like being in Times Square all over again. The overwhelming tidal wave of _this can’t be_ rushing around him, pushing and dragging him into what irrevocably _is_. 

He nearly drowns in it, saved only by Natasha gripping his hand tightly underneath the table, her fingers squeezing hard and pulling him back in. 

“Steve,” she says quietly. It takes him a moment but he manages to look at her. She seems calm but he can see it in her eyes. Panic, fear, sadness. She’s as distraught as he feels. He doesn’t understand why. 

“I…I don’t understand. Bucky…?”

“We’ve been looking for him for awhile, Steve.” Natasha murmurs. “I didn’t want to say anything in case it all came to a dead end.”

“That, and it’s a highly classified op.” Fury adds, his one eye flicking toward Natasha in an unspoken warning. 

“Bucky _died_. I saw him die. He…” Steve clenches and unclenches his other hand underneath the table, remembering reaching, straining, grasping for Bucky’s hand and finding nothing but air, watching as his best friend plummeted, screaming, to the snow and ice-covered rocks hundreds of feet below and taking so much of his heart with him. He closes his eyes against the memory but it’s useless; he can’t block out the vision of Bucky’s terrified face. “No.”

He looks to each person in the room, searching for some sign that this is a terrible, sick joke. No one will look at him and he wants to yell at them all, ask them what the hell they think they’re doing. 

Tony’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the closed glass with his hand on the knob, poised for a quick exit. 

Steve refuses to lose it in front of him. In front of the team. He disentangles his fingers from Natasha’s and folds his hands on top of the table. He swallows around the choking sob that had been building in his throat and corrects his posture, straightening up and directing his attention to Fury. 

“If Sergeant Barnes is in fact alive, I take it he’s been recovered?” It’s strange how formal and strong his voice is coming out. He’s not sure how he’s faking it. 

Fury shifts his stance, managing not to act the least bit surprised that Captain America is keeping it together. He shouldn’t be; the man’s seen him muster through before. 

“Barnes is in our custody, that is correct.”

“Our custody?” Steve repeats. 

“Barnes has been operating on behalf of the Russian government under the codename of Winter Soldier. Agent Romanoff had contact with him in this guise prior to her involvement with SHIELD. Before today, she was our only agent to have met the man face to face. While working through your file after your recovery, she recognized your associate Barnes as the one we now know as the Winter Soldier and has been working to locate him since that time.”

“He wasn’t my _associate_ , he was my _best friend_.”

“Captain Rogers-“

“I don’t understand. How is he still alive? That’s impossible.”

“You’re alive and that’s impossible.” Fury points out and Steve starts to rebut but Natasha cuts him off.

“You know Zola was in the midst of testing a new variant of the serum on Barnes when you first rescued him from HYDRA. While not a success, we believe the lingering effects might have contributed to his survival.”

“You’re saying Bucky’s another version of a super soldier?”

“A pale shadow of one.” Fury shakes his head. “Perhaps fortunately for us in this case, there’s only one you.”

“Barnes was recovered by a team from the USSR and cryogenically frozen. That’s a little like what happened to you except absolutely intentional,” Natasha explains before he even has time to be confused by her terminology. “The Winter Soldier was first activated during the Cold War and then disappeared off the map in the early 1990s after the wall came down. Some years later, he turned up in the Middle East, Northern Africa, China. It was at this time that I first became aware of him myself. He was pretty much a legend, a bedtime story that they would tell us. The ultimate assassin.”

“That’s not Bucky.”

“In a way, you’re right. He called himself Yasha.”

Steve closes his eyes but it’s no use, all he can see is Bucky’s face.

“I was twenty when they sent me on my first mission alongside him. At the time it was the biggest day of my life, being sent out with the Winter Soldier. He was the best of the best.”

“This can’t be true.”

“I’m sorry, Captain, but it is.” Fury doesn’t really sound all that sorry. “James Barnes was brainwashed by General Lukin’s team of scientists and trained up as Russia’s favorite secret weapon. They only brought him out for special occasions-“

“Like the good china,” Tony mutters. 

“And we always found a pile of dead bodies wherever he popped on the radar. We never got a good read on the guy. Just bits and pieces here and there from mostly unreliable sources. He was like a damn ghost.” Fury slides the file across the table to Steve. His hand trembles as he lifts the cover. He doesn’t want to read this. “But he’s ours now, and he’s starting to come out of it.”

“So what do you want me to do? Show up and jog his memory?” Steve snaps, looking up from some strange diagram of what appears to be an electronic arm of some kind. “How long has he been here? How long have you known?”

“Captain Rogers, as Agent Romanoff stated, he walked in today. He knew we were looking for him and he turned himself in.”

“That simple, huh.” Tony chimes in skeptically and Steve starts. He hadn’t forgotten there were other people in the room, certainly, but it’s like he’d forgotten they could speak. “Zangief just woke up this morning and was like, ‘Hey, today’s as a good a day as any to turn myself into a super secret spy organization’? Or, what, he had a hankering for an incredibly uncomfortable interrogation in SHIELD’s super swank prison block?”

“Barnes has been regaining his original memories. He’s scared, and confused, and he is doing what he believes is right,” Natasha retorts harshly, glaring at Tony. 

“Surely you have to be suspicious? It’s not a coincidence that this alleged Sergeant Barnes shows up right after Captain America re-emerges,” Dr. Banner cuts in before Tony gets to. 

“I don’t think so," Natasha replies more calmly and Clint, who’d been staring fixatedly at the table, snaps his head toward her. His eyes flare with unexpected heat. 

“Surely your blind spot for this guy can’t be that huge, Nat.”

“What I meant was, I don’t think it was a coincidence.” Her words are carefully measured and weighed. “I think seeing Captain America on television, in the newspapers, and for all we know, possibly in person, prompted the break. I think _Steve_ is the reason he’s starting to remember his true identity.”

“I want to see him.” Steve doesn’t realize he has risen from his chair until he sees all the faces around the table angling upward to look at him. 

“Now, Captain-“

“What? I can’t see him?”

“You can see him, but I’m afraid that’s going to be all you can do. See.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Currently Barnes is cooperating under the provision that he does not have any direct contact with you.”

“That’s horseshit!” Again, Steve is shocked by Tony’s outburst. “Fury, you’re a grade-A first class asshole if you think you can drag Steve in here, tell him his best friend is miraculously alive, _somehow_ , after all these years, and then say he’s not allowed access? What the fuck?” 

“Tony…” Bruce is getting up and walking toward Tony, likes he’s concerned Tony’s the one who is going to Hulk out and destroy the room. Tony shakes Bruce away.

“No, seriously, what the ever-living fuck?” 

“Most respectfully, I do agree with Brother Stark,” Thor states. “It seems highly irregular to inform the Captain of his comrade’s continued existence on this earthly plane to only then turn about and deny him the right to visit this dear friend.”

“I understand that the situation _sucks_ ,” Fury says bluntly. “But that’s the hand we’ve been dealt here. When one of the world’s most wanted spies strolls into your office and agrees to spill his guts with the one small proviso being he doesn’t want Rogers on the guest list to that particular party, you don’t look the damn gift horse in the mouth. And I don’t think I should need to remind you all that I didn’t _have_ to tell any of you a goddamn word of this. We could’ve just as easily kept Barnes under wraps. I am giving Cap here the common courtesy of the truth.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, right, this is common courtesy…” Tony growls out, looking like he’s ready to give Fury a go. Bruce puts a hand against Tony’s chest and tries to steady him, catch his gaze and tell him silently to calm down. 

Tony throws off his touch and storms out, slamming the door behind him so hard that the glass wall vibrates. Glances are exchanged across the table until Bruce takes his glasses off and carefully puts them in the front pocket of his tweed blazer.

“I’ll go keep Tony from doing something stupid.” 

“Like that’s possible,” Clint mutters under his breath as Bruce ducks out after Tony. Steve ekes out a smile somehow, even though Clint’s comment was barely funny and not a single person in the room cares. It just seems like he should try to react normally to things; they’re expecting him to handle this. He couldn’t fall to a million pieces when he woke up in 2012, and he can’t fall to a million pieces now. 

So what if Bucky’s alive but doesn’t want to see him. He should be thrilled over the fact of Bucky’s survival alone. It defies logic. And while it would be indescribably amazing to have his best friend back, let alone back here in _this_ time, in _this_ world, where he’s so _completely_ alone…like Fury said, this is the hand he’s been dealt. 

He only has these cards to play. 

“You said I would be able to see him?” Steve prompts Fury, who nods once and pulls a remote out of the inside pocket of his black coat. He presses a button and a video feed starts streaming over the center of the table, the rundown of Bucky’s information and vital stats running along the right side of the camera link to his cell. 

And there he is. 

Sitting on a narrow cot, leaning his head back against the cinder block wall. He looks so much the same. Slightly older. His hair’s longer. He’s tired, or maybe bored. His face is painfully blank.

It feels like someone took his heart in their hands and twisted. Bucky. Alive. Tears sting his eyes. He quickly blinks them away and tries to focus through the tightening in his chest. 

It’s Bucky, so he has to figure this out. 

Steve makes a note to run all the information onscreen by Dr. Banner later. He’ll remember what’s in the file, but he doesn’t know what any of it means. Bruce will have to be the one to make heads or tails of it. He can see the strange arm, resting listlessly by Bucky’s side. He’ll ask Tony too. Tony will know about biomechanical extensions; from what he can gather at a quick glance, that’s what Bucky’s inorganic arm is being referred to as. 

He also scans the background of Bucky’s cell for some sign of where they might be keeping him. There’s nothing, the room is as non-descript as non-descript can be. Not a single detail to help him determine if Bucky’s here in New York, on the helicarrier, or one of SHIELD’s many other undisclosed locations. Hell, Bucky could be in jail on the moon and Steve wouldn’t be able to tell. 

“Why won’t he see me? Does it have something to do with his…” Steve stumbles over the right word for it. “Programming?” That’s not right, Bucky’s not a machine, not a computer, but he can’t think of another way to say it. 

Fury clicks another button and a long list files in on screen. Names, dates, and locations. It fills his vision and then keeps on going. 

The Winter Soldier’s targets. 

These are the people that Bucky has killed. 

“And those are just the ones we know about.” Fury adds to the unspoken statement he’s just made. Steve shifts his stance, ready to protest, defend Bucky from all of this. There’s no way. His best friend cannot possibly be this person. And yet, he is. Was. Still is? There’s no way to comprehend this. 

“He’s not ready to face you, Steve.” Natasha’s voice is soft. She sets a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Give him time.”

Steve looks at her, leaving that list growing ever longer out of the corner of his eye, filing in line after line after line. And Natasha, of all people, is looking back at him with her grey eyes shimmering with unshed tears, vulnerable with pity and concern. It’s just wrong, all wrong. 

Steve shrugs off her touch and folds his arms over his chest, pulling everything back into himself that he’s let spill loose. He steels his gaze, swallows against the crack in his voice, and sets his jaw before speaking. 

“Let me know if anything changes.” 

He hasn’t been dismissed and every person in the room starts in at once to try and make him stay, but there’s nothing that anyone could say to make him do so. 

He fully intends to walk back home but stops somewhere near the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge. The wooden planks rattle as cars rumble by beneath his feet, their drivers not even aware of his presence above their heads. He remembers this feeling – knowing the bridge is stable yet _he’s_ not. The bridge won’t crumble but he can. So easily. The wind is stronger and sharper in the space between here and there. Maybe if he stays under the stone arches, surrounded by the draping steel cables, keeps his gaze skyward, he can be steady. He can almost pretend he’s not falling. 

He feels cold for the first time in long while. 

Steve sits as the sun goes down, and remains there in the sweeping half-darkness of headlights, spotlights, city lights, and moonlight until the sun creeps back over the horizon and washes it all out into daylight. 

When he finally goes home, he stops half a block from his building and watches for a few minutes. No one seems to be waiting for him. He had expected Natasha or Fury or some low-ranking SHIELD official whose thankless job it would be to drag him back in, but there’s no one. It doesn’t matter, really. He should be grateful. He doesn’t want to go back there, and he doesn’t want to go to the tower. 

These people aren’t his friends, they’re just placeholders in a life he’s supposed to have lived already. His real friends, they’re all dead and gone. 

Except for the one who is somehow here yet doesn’t want to see him.

Steve’s already in Pennsylvania, just his bike and the clothes on his back, before he fully realizes what he’s doing. When he does, he just revs the engine and keeps on going.


	3. Chapter 3

“Tony?” 

Steve stands from where he’d been bent down by the side of his bike. He’s stripped down to a pair of weather beaten jeans and a dirt-streaked, formerly white tank. A few days’ worth of beard obscures his sharp jaw line, a shade darker than his unusually messy blonde hair. There’s a streak of motor oil on his left bicep, a smudge above his right brow. His dog tags hang loose outside of his shirt, glinting in the sunlight, and it strikes Tony that it’s the first time he’s ever seen Steve wearing them. 

Or more likely the first time he’s noticed. 

Tony regrets layering his Black Sabbath tee over a long sleeved shirt, but hell, it’d been getting cooler in the city. He hadn’t planned on Oklahoma when he’d left this morning. 

“Guess I should be glad you’re not a mechanic or I never would’ve caught up with you,” Tony states, still not sure if he’s peeved or concerned about or thrilled with the idea of Steve taking off from New York in the middle of the night without a word to anyone. “Anyone ever tell you about leaving a note when you take off on your own? _127 Hours_ , watch it. I don’t want you having to saw your own arm off.”

Tony takes a moment to consider Steve’s arms, glistening with a faint sheen of perspiration. The super soldier serum has regenerative properties, but he’s never been clear on how far that extends. He guesses not that far. 

Tearing his gaze from Steve’s bulging biceps, he notices the pained look on Steve’s face and realizes too late that jokes about lost arms probably aren’t in his best interest at this point. Leave it to him to shove his foot in his mouth this quickly. Has to be some kind of record.

“How’d you find me?” Steve asks, picking up a socket wrench from the battered toolbox sitting on the curb and bending back down to his bike. 

“I have my ways,” Tony shrugs. “It took me longer than I’d imagined though. You’re remarkably good at disappearing, Cap, to a pretty scary degree. Did Nat give you tips?”

“Don’t want to talk about Natasha right now,” Steve mutters, twisting at something that Tony can tell didn’t need to be tightened. He wonders if Steve has the faintest clue what he’s doing. He bends down next to him, eyeing the machinery. He pushes up his sleeves.

“You want some help with this? I am a technological wizard, after all, I could get you up and running in no time flat.” 

“What are you doing here, Stark? If they sent you here to bring me in, you can tell them all to go to hell.”

Steve glares at him harshly enough that Tony nearly backs off. But he’s nothing if not well versed in willfully ignoring other people’s anger, so he continues.

“Not a fink, Cap. Far as Fury’s concerned, I’m playing craps and getting disturbingly drunk in Monte Carlo, still rip roarin’ mad about being lied to about your pal Barnes.” He takes the wrench from Steve, leaning in close to point out the problem. “That’s not what you want to be doing. It’s routed to the back of the air plate and something’s probably come loose, that’s why the oil’s misting from where it shouldn’t. All new cycles are built this way now; it’s an EPA thing, that’s probably why you don’t know-” Tony stops himself mid-ramble. His face is dangerously close to Steve’s. “Anyway.”

“Yeah, anyway.” Steve sighs, pulling back and sitting on the edge of the curb. He runs a hand over the scruff on his neck, the gesture of a man clearly not used to going unshaven. 

“I can fix it,” Tony offers. Steve doesn’t look that enthused.

“Sure. Fine.” He mumbles, looking off down the street at nothing in particular. “So what happens now?”

“It should be easy for me to do, I just gotta get a better set of tools, maybe a new tube if the old one’s leaking, pop off the-“

“No, I mean, this.” Steve interrupts, gesturing between them. “I’m not going back with you. I can’t.”

Part of him wants to ask why. Tony had expected Steve to be at SHIELD HQ every damn day, absolutely refusing to leave until he was allowed to see his friend. He figured Steve would be an obstinate and determined pain in Fury’s ass until the man relented and granted Steve access against Barnes’ wishes. 

But when Tony had returned from his own tantrum and discovered that no one seemed to know where Steve was, he’d gone looking. He’s never thought of himself as particularly great at reading people – Obadiah had been plotting to kill him for years, after all, and he’d been none the wiser – but he’d at least thought he’d had a vague idea of what Steve would do in a situation like this. 

Taking off without saying a word to anyone hadn’t really been a scenario Tony had run down. He shouldn’t be surprised he knows less about Steve than he thought he did, considering how hard he’d tried to avoid getting close to the man. 

“Cap. Really. Have I ever been someone to toe the company line? Fury wants you back, Hill or one of his other flunkies are going to have to do the dirty work and drag you in kicking and screaming. I’m just…I’m here, is what I am.” He looks around the tiny, podunk town and shrugs. “Wherever here is.”

Tony stands up, brushing dust from his dark designer jeans and stomping dirt loose from his boots. 

“Where are you staying, soldier boy?”

Steve gives him a half-assed shrug.

“Just been pulling over. Sleeping on the side of the road.”

“Where’s your stuff?”

Steve picks up his red and white-checkered shirt from where it’s draped over the front wheel. 

“This is it.”

“Well hell’s bells, Cap, no wonder it was so easy for you to go dark on me.” He eyes Steve up and down. He really should’ve taken into account that despite the ease with which Steve’s handled the 21st century, Steve’s default factory settings are still analog. The guy probably hasn’t even got his phone with him and obviously has paid for what very little he’s needed along the way with cold hard cash. 

He has to admit he feels a little dumb for not realizing this sooner, he could’ve found Steve days ago if he’d been thinking along the right lines. Instead, he’d been hoping to trace Steve’s cell signal or that his SHIELD-issued credit card would ping. He’s lucky that Steve crossed a toll bridge with a cam and the facial recognition program Tony had piggybacked onto the government database picked it up. Thank god Big Brother’s good for something. 

“Ok. Well.” Tony looks up and down the street, not seeing much that will be of assistance. A diner, a drug store, dentist’s office. Happy is waiting in the town car just fifty yards back, expecting to drive two passengers to the airport. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna get something to eat in that lovely little establishment over there because I need coffee and you need to eat something, and then we’re gonna find some place around here that sells motorcycles, I’m gonna pick one up and then I’m coming with you.”

“Excuse me, what?” Tony kinda wishes Steve had been drinking something because that would’ve been a hell of a spit take. 

“It’ll be like _Easy Rider_. You’re Wyatt, obviously, since y’know, you actually _are_ Captain America. So that makes me Dennis Hopper and that’s fine because frankly, shoe fits like a glove.” He claps his hands together once and walks in the direction of the car, pausing halfway there to wait for Steve to get with the program.

“You’re doing that thing again where you’re talking in pop cultural riddles and expecting me to understand.” Steve packs up the tools and slowly follows Tony, bringing the rusted metal box with him. 

“Me. You. Vroom-vroom.” Tony holds his arms out and rotates his fists like he’s holding the bars of a motorcycle. Then he taps on the driver’s side door and bends over slightly, leaning on the side view mirror as Happy lowers the window. “Hap, we’re gonna get something to eat down that way. Wanna join?”

“I’m in the middle of ‘Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me.’ Bring me a coffee back?” Happy replies and Tony decides he has to give the guy another raise. He always knows precisely when he’s needed and when he needs to leave well enough alone. 

Steve follows him quietly into the diner and Tony watches as he returns the tools to the man at the register. Leave it to Steve to break down in genuine Small Town America where a stranger can just walk in and borrow anyone’s tools because he’s just that honest and they’re just that trusting. 

It probably has a lot to do with Steve. Small Town America probably wouldn’t lend a toolbox to Tony Stark.

Like fuck he would need a toolbox though. Nothing he built would fall apart like Steve’s crappy cycle. 

He settles into a booth and waits for Steve to stop talking about the good old days with the geezer at the counter, and come back and join him in the real world. He suddenly feels annoyed and perplexed, the blurred events of the last few days starting to become clear. And the facts are these:

Tony Stark, the king of misanthropic adventures, weekend benders, and thoughtless disappearing acts had been: One, more anxious than anyone else about Steve. Two, so driven in his attempts to track Steve down that he never stopped to think why. And three, so rushed to find him that he has no plan for what to do when met with success. 

Success being Steve. And him. In Oklahoma. He doesn’t know how to do this, whatever this is that he’s doing. 

Tony pulls himself from the mire of self-doubt and grins at Steve as he sits down across from him. Steve has a polite Cub Scout Leader smile on his face from interacting with the good common folk, and it lasts for a moment longer before slowly fading. 

Tony decides not to needle Steve right now, instead flirting amiably with Suzanne, the elderly waitress, and ordering the world’s largest coffee for himself and a glass of orange juice for Steve. 

“Did Natasha put you up to this?” Steve asks when he suddenly seems to notice that Tony is, for a change, waiting for him to speak first. 

“Nope.”

“Clint.”

“No.”

“Banner?”

“Vehemently opposed to it.” Tony smiles, tight-lipped. Suzanne toddles back with their drinks and Tony raises his eyebrows at Steve over the rim of his mug as he takes a sip of it straight black. “Basically, all the Avengers would like to know where you are and that you’re safe, but everyone wants to give you your space. You’re on a team mostly comprised of angsty, anti-social loners. They think you’ll come back on your own time, when you’re ready.”

“Except for you.”

“I’m impatient.” He picks up the sugar from the table and pours a large amount into his cup. “This coffee is awful.”

“Tony.” Steve leans back in the too-small booth, crossing his arms over his chest. Tony tries his coffee again, finding it now too sweet. 

“Steve.” The other man just stares at him, clearly puzzling something out. “What is it?”

Steve leans forward, runs a finger down the side of his juice glass, cutting a trail through the condensation there. He opens his mouth to say something but instead mumbles:

“It’s nothing.” Steve folds his arms again, glancing out the large plate glass window to his left. 

Tony hates it when people press him when he doesn’t want to talk, but he so often finds himself crossing the line in the other direction that he doesn’t think before pushing the matter.

“Don’t leave me hangin’ here, Cap, what did you really wanna say?”

Steve actually huffs a little, a slight grimace creasing his face. 

“I...I really wish you could decide if you liked me or you hated me. It would make things a lot easier for us both.”

Again, Steve’s blunt nature catches him off guard. 

“Like I’ve said before, Steve, we’re pals.” Tony drums three fingers on the table top, looks up and looks away, hating himself for not being able to meet Steve’s eyes.

“You’ve said it. You don’t seem to know if you mean it.”

“Maybe I was waiting to see what side of the fence you came down on," Tony puts forth uselessly, not believing it as an explanation himself. He’s Tony Stark, after all, and someone not liking him has always been a welcome challenge to convert them into the pro-Stark camp. Or at the very least, an equally welcome opportunity for some steamy hate sex. 

“Well I, I’d like us to be friends.” 

It’s a safe answer that still leaves the ball in Tony’s court, but Tony lets it pass without comment. 

“Then we’re friends. And I mean it.” He reaches across the table and takes Steve’s glass of orange juice. “This coffee really is wretched.”

A faint but real smile, weak from non-use, comes over Steve’s face as Tony drains half the glass and then slides it back. 

“So, Cap, where are we going next?”

“I didn’t have a plan.”

“The great tactician has no plan? What is this madness?” Tony taunts and Steve’s smile spreads full. 

“I thought you’d be glad. No plan, no orders.”

“Well, not to shock you, but _I_ have a plan.”

“You do?”

“Eh, it’s short-term, so don’t get too excited. Goes like this: fix your bike, find me a bike, and then find you a razor. That’s as far as it goes.”

“A razor?”

“Yeah. Though we might move the shave up to priority one. You with facial hair is freaking me out.” He surprises himself by reaching across the table again and touching the side of Steve’s bearded face. Steve’s smile falters just a little and Tony draws his hand back quickly, flapping it in front of his own face as he crinkles his nose. 

“You also need a shower because you smell like fifteen hundred miles of hard road.” 

“And here I thought I smelled manly.” Steve actually chuckles so Tony marks it down as a win.

*******

“Have you _lost_ your _mind?_ ” Pepper doesn’t shriek as a general rule, but her voice pushes the boundaries of mild disbelief and approaches full on _what the fuck_ territory.

“So, you know, push any necessary meetings back, cancel the unnecessary ones, and I know doing this isn’t exactly your job anymore per se, but can you rush some decent Steve-sized clothes to the house in Aspen? I figure we can make it there by tomorrow night and I, personally, don’t want to be seen hanging out with the Cap dressed in OSU wear I bought at Walgreens any longer than I have to.”

Pepper is quiet for a long moment.

“Pep?”

“I think Steve would look good in orange.”

“Not really the point, Pepper,” Tony replies as he sets the t-shirt and sweatpants on the checkout counter, along with a razor and some shaving cream, a couple bottles of water, milk and a box of cereal. He tosses on a candy bar and a five-hour energy drink for himself, balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear as he digs out his wallet. 

“I honestly don’t know what else to say. I thought you were going to bring him back.” 

“No, I said I was going to find him. I never said what I was going to do with him after that.”

“Tony, he’s not a toy.”

“I know that. All my Captain America toys are in storage at the old place on Park.”

“I don’t think-“

“I never had a life-size Cap toy either, so there really shouldn’t be any confusion.”

“-this is a good idea.”

The clerk, looking both bored and annoyed, rings up his items slowly and shoves them into a plastic bag. If Steve were here, he’d be telling Tony to hang up the phone and be polite. Tony manages an apologetic smile and a mouthed “I’m sorry,” that he really doesn’t mean. The clerk levels him with a blank stare and waits for him to slide his card. 

“All my ideas are good ideas.” Tony retorts a bit belatedly, slipping his card back into his wallet. He cannot remember the last time he had to buy things like these for himself. Hell, he can’t remember being in a Walgreens before. It’s a rather miserable place.

“I have a file that says otherwise.”

“What, so there are a few failed projects, that doesn’t mean-“

“Not the Stark Industries file, Tony. The one in my head that features such brilliant gems like the two strippers in Reno –“

“Exotic dancers.” He takes the bag from the counter with a muttered thanks and heads outside. Despite the late hour, it’s still too warm; he pushes up his sleeves again, trying to balance his bags and the phone as he does. 

“Then there’s the tattoo incident of ’04-“

“It was temporary!”

“You had it removed, that’s not the same thing as temporary,” Pepper points out coolly. “And since you’re going to have a glib answer for every other thing I bring up, I think I’ll just skip right on down to the omelette and stop there.”

It’s Tony’s turn to be quiet. He coughs a little, getting rid of the unexpected swell of emotion that catches in his throat. 

“You’re right. Next time I’m dying, I should just bring you donuts and call it a day.” 

Pepper sighs. Tony can practically hear her frowning over the line. He crosses the litter-strewn parking lot and jaywalks across the nearly empty street, the sign of the Motel 6 a thoroughly depressing beacon. 

“Tony…”

“What? Donuts are a great bereavement food. There’s that big gaping hole in the middle. It’s damn near poetic. You don’t agree?” 

“While I appreciate your philosophy on the relationship of breakfast items to overwhelming personal grief, I’d like to take a minute to remind you that while you may think everything’s a big joke, there are people who care about you. Me, for one.”

“I know, Pepper.” Tony knows her patience is wearing thin. He can push the sarcastic humor only so far before it stops being a defense mechanism and turns into an offensive weapon. 

“And I want you to think about what you’re doing here before someone gets hurt.”

“Are you worried about me or are you worried about Steve?”

Pepper hesitates and Tony stops just outside his and Steve’s room. He leans against the wall, waiting for Pepper to answer. She doesn’t.

“Pepper?”

“He’s already lost and confused, Tony.”

“I know that. Why exactly do you think I’m here?”

“And how do you expect to sort him out? It’s the blind leading the blind.”

“That actually kind of hurt, Pep.” Tony scratches his eyebrow with his thumb and leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes against the beginnings of a headache. 

“I only mean that you, of all parties interested and concerned and willing, are maybe not the best choice for this. You know your head’s a mess when it comes to him.”

“Well maybe it’s time to figure things out, okay? I need to do this.”

“That’s exactly it, Tony. It’s not about you. Do you think Steve needs that extra baggage right now?”

He loves Pepper, he does, but sometimes he wishes she wasn’t so willing to say what’s on her mind.

“What Steve needs is a distraction. I’m distracting. And I’ll keep distracting him until he’s ready to come back to New York and face the fact that life has thrown him yet _another_ craptastic curveball in the shape of his not-so-dead not-so-sane assassin super spy best friend.”

“Tony-“

“No. End of discussion. Please send the clothes to Aspen for Steve, I will call you when we hit Vegas.” 

“Vegas? Tony, no-“

Tony presses _end_. He doesn’t think he’s ever hung up on Pepper before, not during a real non-business related conversation. But he doesn’t want to hear any more about how he’s going to wreck Steve or how Steve’s going to wreck him. Can’t break what’s already broken. 

He shoves his phone into his pocket and digs out the room key, slides it into the battered lock. 

Tony Stark in a Motel 6 – what is the world coming to? If only he’d caught up with Steve somewhere near a decent Omni. 

The door sticks and he has to put his shoulder into it to get it open. The room smells of bleach and air conditioner fluid and it’s dark, save for the faint blue glow of his arc reactor and the sliver of warm yellow light that’s seeping from the bathroom door. It’s cracked open about an inch to let steam escape. 

“Steve, I’m back. Got you some new threads.” He calls over the sound of the running shower, flipping on the table lamp by the closer of the two beds. 

“Tony, that you?” The shower turns off and Tony shakes his head to himself.

“You expecting someone else?” He sets the milk down on the wobbly round table by the window and then dumps the contents of his bags next to it. Fishing out the razor and the shaving cream, he goes to the bathroom door and knocks lightly. 

Steve opens it all the way, still dripping wet, his pale skin flushed from the heat of the shower. A threadbare white towel is slung low at his waist, sitting loose around his hips like all Tony would have to do is brush against him to make it fall off. 

Not that he wants that to happen. It was just an observation. And if he watches a single bead of water slide delicately from Steve’s sharp collarbone down the defined lines of his chest and stomach, it’s just because…

Well, it’s because he’s only human and Steve’s perfect. 

“Pressure’s good.” Steve’s too close and it takes Tony a second to realize what he even means. “Water stayed hot too.”

Tony waggles the razor in front of Steve’s face and takes a step back.

“I’ll shower after you shave, Grizzly Adams.” 

“Guessing this Mr. Adams has quite the beard?” Steve takes the razor from Tony with an arched eyebrow and a smile. He tears open the difficult plastic packaging like it was tissue paper and turns on the sink, fingers swishing through the stream of water to feel its temperature. He lets it run as Tony hands over the can of shaving cream. 

“Your deduction is correct. Your beard is actually sub-par compared to his, but he was the easiest reference to pull from my repertoire.”

“Tony, you could make someone up for all I know, I don’t think it matters.” He looks at Tony through their reflections in the mirror as he lathers his face.

“Yeah, but I’m exhausted and I could only come up with Beardy McBearderson and I think even you would’ve seen through that.” Tony leans against the doorframe and rubs his hands over his tired eyes. Maybe it’s the conversation he just had with Pepper, but the day is suddenly weighing him down like a ton of bricks. 

He watches as Steve drags the razor down his cheek, the swath of shaving cream disappearing to reveal smooth skin underneath. His hand is steady and sure, his movements careful but efficient. Steve catches his gaze in the mirror again as he rinses the razor clean. Tony doesn’t look away, finds he doesn’t want to. 

He stands there quietly until Steve finishes shaving, splashes water over his face. Tony offers him a hand towel to pat dry. When he’s done and casts the towel aside, he smiles at Tony and picks up the razor.

“Your turn?” He asks with a devious glint. 

“No way in hell, Rogers. This,” Tony runs a hand over his immaculately shaped and trimmed Van Dyck. “Takes a fair amount of care and attention. It’s not to be trifled with.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Face it, Steve. Some people can just pull it off, while others, they look like bums.”

“I hardly looked like I belonged in a Hooverville, Tony.”

“Yeah, well, maybe not,” Tony admits. Steve hadn’t looked bad – he’d looked different. “But I’ve just started getting used to you and that’s harder to do if you go changing on me.” 

He hadn’t meant to say that, but he did, and now Steve has this strange expression on his face. 

“Well.” Steve starts, shifting slightly and glancing down toward the floor. “Then I guess I better make sure to bring these with us when we go.” He moves the razor and shaving cream carefully off to the side of the counter. 

“Definitely.” Tony agrees, reaching out and chucking Steve on the chin. Steve laughs a little, pushing his hand away. 

“All right. You take your shower now, we should get an early start in the a.m.” His voice shifts into his Captain tone, issuing an order instead of inviting discussion, but it doesn’t make Tony bristle the way it usually does.

“How early is an early start, Cap?” Tony grimaces, expecting the worst.

“I won’t make it too hard on you. Six o’clock?”

“Six o’clock is taking it easy?” Tony glances at his watch. It’s near midnight now, and even if he tries to go to sleep it’ll probably take a good two hours to settle and that’s only because he’s already pretty tired. “Ugh.”

He rolls his eyes and manhandles Steve the rest of the way out of the bathroom.

“Go get dressed, Drill Sergeant.” 

Steve picks up the tee and sweats Tony had tossed onto the bed and turns back around, holding them up with a skeptical look on his face.

“Don’t gimme that, I’m not the one who’s been wearing the same clothes for three days. Unless you want to stand naked in the laundromat tomorrow while you wash your horribly filthy disgusting jeans and disgracefully unfashionable shirt, you better suck it up and deal.”

“I’m not concerned with being a fashion plate, Tony. It’s just…” He stretches the fabric of the shirt, dismayed. “It’s just that they’re a little…small.”

“Oh. Well. Make it work.” 

Steve shrugs a little, giving up, and sits down on the bed.

“And don’t sit on the comforter, those things are disease-ridden germ infestations. They never wash them.”

Steve shrugs again.

“I can’t get sick.”

“Well, considering your system upgrade happened in 1943, Steve, your software might be a bit out of date. A little extra virus protection never hurt anyone.” Steve looks at him blankly, not amused. “What, computer jokes not your speed? Just humor me, you oaf, and don’t sit on that thing half-naked? I don’t want to explain to Fury how you picked up the clap.”

“You can’t get the clap from sitting on a bed,” Steve comments unhelpfully, nevertheless heeding Tony and standing up. His towel slips a little and he pulls it tighter. 

“I know that, but the diseases festering on that thing are probably ones you’ve never heard of, old timer.”

Steve pulls the comforter all the way down, draping it over the end and onto the floor.

“Better?”

“Much,” Tony replies, already looking forward to spending tomorrow night in his California King size bed with nice, clean, 1500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, with a stunning view of the majestic Rockies instead of a dirty parking lot. He goes all the way back into the bathroom, and as he shuts the door behind him, he catches a glimpse of Steve’s hands going to his waist, loosening his towel.

He pauses, the flash of bare flesh, the curve of Steve’s ass enough to make his pulse start pounding like the first time he ever opened up a Playboy. It feels just as thrilling and just as wrong. The way he slams the door shut with too much force only draws attention to the fact that he’d stopped to look. 

Tony wrenches the shower on and disrobes quickly, climbing in before the water has a chance to heat. The fact that his dick’s already half-hard sends another wave of guilt crashing over him for having hung up on Pepper. 

This thing with Steve is twice as dangerous as Pepper thought and in a very different way than he suspects Pepper believes. He shouldn’t be here. He should forget it all and go back to New York, back to Pepper, and let everyone else deal with Captain America. 

It’s only a matter of time before he does something stupid.

*******

They don’t make it to Aspen until four days later.

Like most things with Steve, it paradoxically happens against his will yet is entirely his own idea. In his grand tradition of doing something at one thousand percent or not doing it all, Tony leads Steve anywhere but back to New York. 

On his whim they drive up to Mount Rushmore. Tony quickly discovers that looking at presidential faces carved into the side of a mountain is boring as hell and that there is nothing to do in the entirety of South Dakota. He ends up sitting too close to Steve on one of their hotel room beds, watching _North by Northwest_ on his tablet. It’s probably the most exciting thing ever to happen at Mount Rushmore – though he’s not sure if he means Hitchcock’s imaginary tale of intrigue or the fact that he and Steve sit together, legs touching, for over two hours and watch a movie. 

He supposes since the film used a fake set, it’s the thing with him and Steve. 

The next morning Tony wakes from a surprisingly restful and undisturbed slumber to Steve opening the door, two large coffees and a bag of pastries in hand. He hands it all over to Tony and sits quietly, doing nothing, as Tony digs in. Steve’s eyes are red, his skin is pale, and he’s clearly been up for hours. Tony begins to suspect that not only is there someone on this planet who can function on less sleep than he, but that he’s not doing nearly good enough a job at being a distraction. 

They spend the next two nights in Denver. Which is patently ridiculous, because Aspen is a stone’s throw away. He has to pick them up some decent clothes before taking Steve out on the town, and that involves a little _Pretty Woman_ moment when two dirty looking guys in beaten clothes walk into a high end clothier and nearly get asked to leave. It’s resolved the second Tony whips out his credit card and his thousand-watt don’t-fuck-with-me smile, charming and threatening at once. Lo and behold, miracle of miracles, they recognize him then. 

The way the saleswomen fawn over Steve is worth the minor annoyance. He sits and watches the floorshow as he teases Steve into trying on about six different outfits. All of them look disturbingly good. He makes a grave error in judgment and barges into the dressing room when Steve gets stubborn about outfit number seven. He’s got his hands on Steve’s belt, insisting that Steve try on the darker wash of Diesels, before he thinks about what he’s doing. 

Steve stops protesting when Tony stops moving and starts staring instead. Steve doesn’t have his shirt on. Or shoes. Tony uncurls his fingers from around Steve’s belt buckle and takes a step back, but other than that he thinks he manages to bluster past it quickly enough. He grabs the jeans he wanted Steve to try and shoves them over, pointedly not leaving as Steve strips down to his brand spankin’ new Ralph Lauren underwear and begrudgingly puts them on. 

In for a penny, in for a dollar, he figures. 

He even makes Steve turn around, checks out the way the jeans snugly fit his ass, and then declares the pair the winner. The casual yet over-the-top ogling seems to push the tension away, convincing Steve that Tony’s jokingly pushing his buttons, because Steve just rolls his eyes at Tony and tells him he’s impossible. 

“Under no circumstances tell that man what this all costs.” Tony instructs Cynthia, the leggy blonde at the counter who’d turned remarkably friendly when she’d helped Steve find the right fit for the dark blue sweater knit polo he’s now wearing. 

“I’m sure it costs more than it should.” Steve stops beside him, sliding his own card over. “On this, please, Miss." Tony looks from the small piece of plastic to Steve. 

“So you did go dark on purpose.” He comments and Steve looks weary as he slips his wallet into the back pocket of his new jeans. 

“Don’t ever tell me how you found me.” Steve replies. He moves to pick up the bag containing their old clothes but Tony grabs it first.

“Burn those.” He hands it to Cynthia. Sliding his sunglasses back on, fixing the collar of his lovely new black button down, he then gives Steve another once over. “Now that we’re fit for public consumption…time to paint the town red and gold, buddy boy.”

He takes Steve to all the great places he knows, but the restaurant he chooses, the club he picks, even the luxury hotel he checks them into, don’t seem to do the trick. Steve’s smiling, Steve’s polite, but it’s not the right kind of smile, and they should be passed polite. Tony plainly doesn’t know Steve well enough to give him a good time, but he does know him well enough to see through the act. 

Which leaves Tony in the horrible position of knowing he’s failing and not knowing how to fix it. 

“You’re not in Aspen, Tony.” Pepper greets him when he calls, her tone flat. 

“How do you know that?”

“Because _I’m_ in Aspen.” 

And isn’t that just…well, he doesn’t know what it is. It’s something. He swallows down the defeat of Pepper anticipating this phone call and focuses on the gratitude welling up to take its place. 

“Oh. Any chance you could be in Denver?”

Pepper sighs.

“Give me a few hours.”

“A few hours? Pepper, I’m in the rattling death throes here.”

“Well, Tony, unless you’ve been holding out on me, no one has of yet invented teleportation. So yes. A few hours.” She hangs up on him this time, but it’s not worrying. He’d worry if she’d refused to come. 

He’s sitting alone at the bar of El Chapultepec, a divey looking Mexican-American Jazz club he let Steve wander them into, when Pepper slides onto the stool beside him. She doesn’t look at all perturbed over the strange mix of Tex-Mex burritos on the menu and deep down delta blues in the air. 

“Where’s Steve?” She asks over the music.

“Hitting the head. Don’t tell him I told you that, he’d be embarrassed. Or better yet, _do_ mention it and refer to it as the W.C. or the loo so he has to ask you what you mean.”

“His girlfriend was British, Tony,” Pepper replies distractedly, her eyes sweeping the tiny joint for a sign of Steve. “I hardly think he’d be lost over a little slang.” 

“I met her once.” That gets Pepper’s attention back on him immediately. “She came ‘round once to see my dad. I must’ve been around nine or so.” Tony scratches his forehead with his thumb. Pepper is staring at him like this is mind-boggling news. “I told you that, I’m sure I told you that.”

“No, Tony, you never told me that. Did you mention this to Steve?”

“Kinda figured it’d be a sore subject.” 

“And you’re known for your tact.” Pepper retorts, but Tony stops her mid-eye roll, reaching over and taking her hand.

“Thanks for coming, Pep.” 

She gives his fingers a soft squeeze and she smiles; that pinched look primed and ready for disappointment leaves her face for the first time since she sat down. 

“You know me, always useful in an emergency.”

“That you are.” He agrees. He signals the bartender and orders Pepper a martini with three olives and another shot of tequila for himself. Tony watches Pepper’s reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar, tries to imagine what his life would be like without her. He doesn’t want to consider it. 

Tony wonders, amazingly for the first time, what Steve’s plans had been with Peggy. Or really, what _any_ of Steve’s plans had been. He has never asked Steve ‘ _what if?_ ’. 

“He must miss her. I can’t even imagine…” 

Pepper’s gaze softens in a different way then and he wonders how often she looks at him like that when he’s not paying attention. He turns from the mirror to face her directly. She reaches out and runs a hand through his hair and it’s odd, because it feels like she’s trying to comfort _him_ when he’s sad for Steve. 

“Should I ever tell him? That I met her?” The jazz band winds down their lengthy jam and the bar becomes less loud by half.

“Depends. Do you remember anything worth telling?”

“I remember she was beautiful, like a movie star. Even then. She wore this red, red lipstick. I remember her being kind, and I remember thinking she seemed sad, but I don’t remember what she did or why I thought that.” He tosses back his shot. “And I remember my parents fighting all night after she left.”

“Your parents fought about Peggy?” 

“No. They fought about Steve.” Tony shuts down the memory quickly. That’s what happens when the door gets open; anything can come out. He points to his empty glass and is poured another. Pepper picks up her martini and stirs the clear liquid with her spear of olives, being carefully silent. He’s pretty much answered his own question as to whether or not he should tell Steve. “So I’ll just keep that lovely little story to myself then.”

The band strikes up a new tune, saxophone starting low and sultry, and Steve is walking back across the red and white tiled floor toward them. He looks almost like he belongs in this decade, his charcoal grey sweater and fitted dark jeans making him look like a living, breathing GQ ad or the next hot new movie star. Tony doesn’t miss how he turns a few heads as he moves through the crowd; Steve seems laughably unaware of anyone’s desiring glance. 

“I see you found him some clothes on your own,” Pepper comments to Tony as Steve finally reaches them. He doesn’t look that surprised to see Pepper, which is weird because Tony never mentioned that she’d be showing up. 

“Steve, so great to see you,” Pepper says before he gets a word out, standing up and kissing him on the cheek, pulling him into a hug. “You look very dashing.” 

“Miss Potts. This is a lovely surprise.” Steve lets Pepper keep her arm around his waist, her side pressed close to his. “You, uh, you look very nice as well. I mean, you always do.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that.” She preens a little, joking, but then frowns. “But you’ve _got_ to start calling me Pepper. I’d hate to have to start yelling at you.” She reaches up, taps him on the chin. “I was in Denver to meet with someone about a contract; Tony called and told me you were nearby. I thought I’d come see how my boys were doing on their cross-country adventure. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh, no, of course not. That’s not- I mean, you’re more than welcome.” Steve hurries to assure her and Tony has to grin at his awkwardness. He’d question how Steve ever bagged Peggy Carter with such an amazing lack of skill but he knows the effect it’s having on him and he figures he’s as immune to adorability as they come, so Peggy probably never stood a chance.

Pepper is warm and easy-going with Steve, making things instantly more comfortable for everyone. She seems to genuinely enjoy Steve’s company – the way he’s charming without trying, the way he occasionally slips and calls her Miss Potts and then blushes, like being proper is something to blush over. 

She asks about where he went before Tony caught up with him and he tells her, which is more than Tony’s been able to make him do. They make plans to visit the MoMA when he gets back to New York, which is the first time Tony’s heard Steve even mention going back home. It’s immediately obvious that Pepper needs no prompting to be Steve’s friend, and he wonders how long she’s been avoiding the connection out of deference to Tony. 

“Would you like to dance, Steve?” Pepper is asking, and Steve is blushing again, hand rubbing at the back of his neck in a gesture that’s becoming familiar, becoming Steve. 

“Oh, I’m no good, Miss – Pepper. I’m sure Tony would love to dance with you.” Steve shakes his head, glancing Tony’s way. 

“Take her out for a spin, Steve-o, I’m sure she’s sick of me.”

“A gal doesn’t fly all the way in from New York to _not_ dance with her guy, Tony.” Steve comes to stand behind him, gently pushes him at the backs of his shoulders and gets him to stand up. “Thank you for the invitation, Pepper, but I guarantee your feet will be all the much better for it if Tony does the honors.” 

He grabs Tony’s vacated seat and Pepper takes Tony’s hand, shrugging. 

“Looks like you’re stuck with me, then.” Tony slams back his last shot and lets Pepper pull him in. There’s really not much room for dancing and Steve’s only a few feet away as he sways with Pepper to the thrum of the upright bass. 

He catches Steve’s eye over Pepper’s shoulder, gives him a wink. Steve smiles softly and then looks away. He doesn’t look back.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony’s house in Aspen is too huge to rightly be called a house. It’s a version of the tower horizontally adjusted for a mountain setting. As Tony and Pepper set about their business, catching up on phone calls and paperwork and getting all settled, Steve stands in the great room alone.

The wood ceiling feels about one hundred feet high and three sides of the room are built with floor to ceiling windows, asymmetrically and artistically separated into panes by smooth, golden warm planks of pine. The large fireplace is already lit somehow, even though they only just walked in. 

“JARVIS?” Steve asks quietly. He sets a hand on the grand piano at his side and just as quickly lifts it, afraid to touch anything. 

“Hello, sir. Welcome to Aspen. It is good to see you are faring well.”

Steve smiles a little to himself, not expecting to have missed an AI but finding that he had. 

“Good to hear your voice, JARVIS.”

“Might I direct you to your quarters, sir?”

“May I take a moment?” Steve asks, waiting for permission before going to the double doors leading out to the stone patio. 

“Of course, sir.” The doors open before he reaches them. He glances toward Tony and Pepper, who are simultaneously on their phones yet seem to be discussing something with each other as well. Neither notices him as he ducks outside. 

There’s nothing but trees straight out for miles, the mountains raising faint purple-blue and beautiful in the distance. It’s lush and green and the air is crisp. There’s a small pool straight out from the door, its surface flat and still and extending edge to edge, like the water is falling over its horizon. Steve walks to the end of the stone patio, toes of his boots nearly touching water, and looks down. The pool is shallow enough to see straight to the bottom.

“It’s called an infinity pond.” 

Steve turns around quickly. Tony is leaning in the open doorway, beer in one hand and his phone in the other. He clicks something on the screen and then shoves it away into his pocket. 

“It’s just one of those pointless decorative things that us billionaires have. It has no actual use. I wanted a full pool but the space back here wasn’t large enough.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t figure a way around that,” Steve replies and Tony looks contemplative. 

“I don’t like water that much. Hardly worth the trouble.”

“Then why did you want a pool?”

“Cause I stopped enjoying pointless things a long time ago and that thing’s useless.” Tony’s dark features turn darker for a moment, then he smiles, clearing it away. “At least a pool, other people can use. Forget the pond, Cap – c’mon, wanna see your room?”

Steve doesn’t bother to reply, because Tony’s already leading the way. Steve counts five other bedrooms before Tony actually guides him into one, but the house goes on in both directions so he really has no idea how big the place really is. What he does know for sure is that if the living situation here is this luxurious, he can’t properly imagine what Tony has set up for everyone back at the tower. He’s never actually seen anyone’s quarters.

The room Tony has given him has a fireplace, two flat screen televisions, its own sitting area, and a bed that has to be at least seven feet wide and is half covered in pillows of all different shapes and sizes. The sleeping area can be closed in on all four sides by heavy curtains running from the ceiling to the floor. Even at a glance, Steve can see the private bath is the size of his entire apartment back in Brooklyn. 

Tony opens the door to the walk-in closet and gestures for Steve to come inside. Steve closes his gaping mouth and follows him.

“Pepper took the liberty of getting some more clean clothes for you. Not that that outfit doesn’t look great and all –“ Tony reaches out like he’s going to touch the dark fabric covering Steve’s chest beneath his leather jacket but stops at the last second. “ – but I figured you might want something else seeing as how this trip of ours is, at this point, indefinite.” Tony runs his hand over the rack of shirts and pants, the shelf full of folded sweaters, then opens and closes a few drawers of the dresser. “Yeah, looks like she’s got everything you might need. Holler if there’s something we forgot.”

Tony is moving like a whirlwind and Steve can’t really catch up. He barely manages to get out a thank you before Tony’s breezing toward the bathroom.

“Should be towels, soap, all the amenities, even fancy fluffy bathrobes with my initials on them. Feel ‘em, they’re nice.” Tony lifts up the sleeve of the one that’s hanging on the hook but doesn’t wait for Steve to touch it before dropping it and moving on. “Shower or bath, for whatever suits your fancy. Sure beats sleeping on the side of the road, doesn’t it?”

“Um…sure.” Steve stares at Tony, realizing a beat too late that Tony is finally talking to him and not at him. “Thanks, Tony. This is all very nice.”

Tony looks at him, clearly at a loss as to what to do now that he’s given Steve the nickel tour. 

“Ok. Well. Pepper says dinner’s at seven.”

“Would she like any help?” Steve offers, and Tony stares at him blankly.

“With what?”

“With dinner.”

There’s another long moment before it clicks. 

“Oh, god no,” Tony laughs. “I don’t make Pepper cook. She’d kill me. And frankly, it wouldn’t be worth it, cause she’s absolutely terrible at it. She’s ordering in from somewhere. Just come down at seven.”

Tony’s out the door, closing it behind him and leaving Steve alone. 

“JARVIS?” He calls out, suddenly exhausted. 

“Yes, sir.”

“What are the chances I can figure out how to work the shower?” There is an elaborate panel with buttons and knobs and multiple settings in place of a standard tap. He can't even determine which one is the _on_ switch.

“I shall assist you if necessary, sir.”

The thought of a computer having to handle the shower for him is too ridiculous. He doesn’t know how this became his life. He still remembers growing up when functioning indoor plumbing with hot water was a downright coup. 

“Bath it is, then.”

*******

Steve sighs and once again checks the clock on the mantle. He can hear it tick as the hands inch closer to three a.m. After adding another unfruitful stroke to his sketch, he sets the pencil and piece of scratch paper aside.

He’d turn the television on, but he’d searched the channels earlier, twice, and found nothing interesting. There’s a new saying about that, he knows, but he can’t quite remember how it goes. But he agrees with the sentiment. TV had been cutting edge technology when he’d gone off to the war; now even he’s bored with it. There’s more of everything these days, yet nothing feels right. 

It had been around midnight when he came down to the kitchen for something to drink; he’d found the idea of returning to his room unbearable. In truth, he’d been half-hoping to find Tony awake too, but he’s happily ensconced in the master suite with Pepper. As well he should be. Steve can’t begrudge the man that. 

So here he is, three hours later, sitting alone on a wraparound couch suited for twelve people, in a living room big enough for three times as many. He keeps trying not to cry, biting back the tears he’s been fighting for months now. Occasionally one escapes down his cheek and he’s quick to brush it away. 

Seeing Tony with Pepper has left Peggy on his mind. Not for the first time, he doubts his decision to let Peggy be, to let her live out her final days in Winchester without him abruptly walking back into her life, seventy years too late. Doing that would have been horribly selfish. Not seeing her is the right choice, but he can’t lie – it’s also safer. What if he had gone to see her and she’d refused, the way Bucky’s refused now? He doesn’t know if he could’ve taken it. 

He shivers. He’s wearing a pair of loose dark grey cotton pajama pants and the navy blue official Team USA Olympics tank Tony gleefully gave him with more amusement than is probably normal, and maybe he should’ve grabbed one of Tony’s much lauded bathrobes because he’s suddenly chilled. 

“JARVIS, light the fire, would you please?” Comes a voice from behind him. Steve hurriedly rubs his cheeks and nose, wanting to erase any trace of sadness. It’s the second time Tony has snuck up on him today and it’s odd, because no one except Natasha has been able to get close without him noticing. Natasha can do it because, well, she’s been trained to do it, it’s what she does. 

That’s not the case with Tony at all. Tony can catch him off guard because Tony’s quickly becoming his blind spot. That’s not a thought Steve enjoys. 

“I’m fine,” Steve protests weakly as Tony sits down, leaving only a foot of space between them. He leans back, throws his legs up on the coffee table and his arms across the back of the couch. 

“I don’t care if you’re fine. I’m cold,” Tony retorts as flames flare up in the grate. Tony’s fingers tap out meaningless patterns against the couch’s frame, his hand almost directly behind Steve’s shoulder. The glow from the arc reactor is cool blue through his thin white undershirt, and his black silk pajama pants seem to shimmer in its light. Steve knows silk is supposedly luxurious, but to him it looks neither warm nor comfortable. 

But his and Tony’s ideas of _comfortable_ certainly differ. 

Tony leans over Steve with no warning, body stretched across Steve’s lap as he evidently reaches for the remote that rests on the end table. Steve tries not to move, not to breathe. Before Steve even thinks to relax, Tony’s back in his own spot and clicking the television on. 

Steve eyes the rest of the expansive couch and considers how rude and awkward it would be if he got up and moved. Tony being so near makes him nervous for reasons he’s not sure he fully understands. 

“JARVIS, is there anything good on?” Tony asks, tossing the remote aside carelessly. 

“Performing a scan for your preferred titles, I find that _Back to the Future_ is just beginning on channel seventy-eight, sir.”

“Yeah, let’s watch that.” The channel switches without Tony moving a muscle. “You seen this yet, Steve? You’ll like it.” He settles back against the cushions and Steve sits up. He wants to sputter about the remote, but he can’t find the right words to ask why Tony had to get so needlessly close if JARVIS could control the television that whole time. “What?” Tony asks him, taking in the look on his face and acting at a loss as to what it’s about.

“Nothing.”

“We should make popcorn. You want popcorn?” Tony doesn’t wait for an answer, just clambers up and heads to the kitchen. Steve watches him go, the title credits to the movie beginning to play. The music is loud. 

Steve rises and walks to the bank of windows that comprise one corner of the room. His reflection is clear in the glass; he wipes at his face again, not liking what he sees, and then steps closer to get past the glare and look outside.

The moonlight is bright enough to highlight the tops of the pine trees, to break the mountains from the sky along the horizon. He can see the stars and he wants to go outside and look up, name all the ones he knows. At the orphanage, sometimes he and Bucky would sneak out onto the roof and Buck would ask him to point out the constellations. _You’re the brains, Rogers_ , he’d say, even though Steve knew Bucky didn’t need him to read the night sky. Bucky didn’t need him for anything, really. Steve’s the one who needed. 

The door here leads directly to the yard. No patio, nothing but grass. He leaves the door open behind him. 

“You know, when someone says they’re cold, they don’t mean ‘can we go outside where it’s even colder?’” Tony joins him a short while later, wrapped up in a plaid flannel blanket and overdramatically shaking. 

“You didn’t have to follow me.”

“Eh, it’s fine. Kinda peaceful out here at night,” Tony shrugs, drops the shivering act. “Stars are beautiful and all that.”

“Yeah, and all that,” Steve smiles at Tony’s blasé description of the great outdoors. Tony looks straight out across the mountains, the corner of his mouth curving upward. 

“You should see this place when it snows.”

Steve rocks back and forth on his heels slightly, tilting his head upward to look at the sky once more. 

“Don’t much like the snow.”

He can see Tony nod out of the corner of his eye. 

“I guess I can see that. Probably loses its appeal once you’ve been a Capsicle.”

“I don’t remember much of that, really. I was talking to Peggy and then the plane hit the ice and then…nothing. That is ‘til I woke up in Fury’s poor idea of New York circa ‘44.” 

“So you’ve just always had it out for winter then. What’d it ever do to you?” Tony asks accusingly, but jokingly. Steve gives him the most basic explanation he can.

“When I was a kid, I was nearly always sick in the winter. Hell, I was sick all the time, but winter especially. All the other kids were out having fun, building forts and sledding and having snowball fights…I would’ve given anything to be out there with them.” 

“Yeah, now you’re built like a brick house and can’t get sick, so snow should be your buddy-“

“Can we…not talk about this anymore?”

“I was merely wondering-“

“Because when your best friend plummets to his death at the bottom of a snowy mountain ravine, it tends to stick with you.” Steve says, a bit sharply. He knows that Tony _knows_. He has to. He’s not a stupid man, and he’s read all the files and reports. “You should go back to bed, Tony.”

Tony doesn’t oblige. He stands there quietly, his mind clearly working a mile a minute behind his dark eyes. 

“Not tired.” He finally mutters. 

“Pepper will wake up and worry where you are.”

“She won’t,” Tony tosses off. “Wake up, or worry. She sleeps like the dead and she knows I don’t.”

“Even so…”

“Would you like me to go see Bucky? Y’know – on your behalf?”

The question is a betrayal. They’d had an unspoken agreement – no talk of Howard, no talk of Bucky, and everything would be a-ok with them. Maybe Tony has been pushing that boundary little by little, but his small nudges gave Steve a chance to nudge him back, put him off. Steve can’t nudge him back now; he’d have to shove, and shove hard. 

“The terms are…not _you_ , right?” Tony continues, as simply as if clarifying directions on a road map. “He said nothing about me.”

“He doesn’t even know you.”

“Exactly. And I could sell ice to an Eskimo. I could talk him into seeing you, if I had the chance.”

“No, Tony.”

“And why the hell not?” Tony sounds frustrated and Steve doesn’t even get why. This isn’t his problem and it’s none of his business. 

“Because I said so.” Steve turns on his heel and walks in the opposite direction from Tony, around the corner of the house toward the back patio. 

The grass is damp under his bare feet and he can see Tony slipping and sliding, bobbing in and out of view beside him as the man struggles to keep up. Tony falls behind as he toddles awkwardly, the blanket he has wrapped around himself restricting his pace. 

“Your bulletproof logic really fails to astound me, Rogers.” 

“You don’t _get it_ , Tony.” 

Tony reaches out to grab his elbow and nearly falls as Steve jerks away. Tony opts for being steady over being warm and throws the blanket off his shoulders as they reach the patio. The flannel falls to the steps as he follows Steve up onto the smooth, polished rocks.

Steve crosses his arms and stares at the water in the pond, letting Tony ramble at his back.

“You _know_ I don’t get it. And I’ve been okay with that. With not understanding you. All right, maybe not _okay_ okay, but I have been dealing. My whole life - _my whole life_ \- all I’ve ever done is tear things apart to figure out how they tick, but you, oh no, _you_ , in case you haven’t noticed, I leave alone to go about your business.” 

“What do you want from me?” Steve turns around to face him and Tony nearly collides with him. Steve reaches out a hand to catch him as he wavers this time and Tony pauses, breathes out a pathetic little puff of air, and then looks up at him. 

“Let me tear you apart.” 

It’s strange to hear such violent words come out like a plea. Like it’s an offer Tony needs him to take. 

Tony changed something between them, just now, and Steve doesn’t even know how. 

“You’re already falling to pieces, Steve. Let me finish the job. You can even blame me, if you want to. ” Tony offers this with the practiced ease of a man used to being hated and it makes Steve’s gut twist painfully.

“Tony, why would I blame you-“

“Creation and destruction. That’s what Starks are good for.” When he continues, he speaks quietly and intensely, getting so close that their bodies touch. It makes Steve’s temperature rise. Tony refuses to let Steve look away, following his gaze wherever it goes and getting in its way. 

“What are you good for? Huh, Cap? Why try so hard to keep it together? For Fury? Afraid he won’t let you lead the team if you show a little weakness?”

“Please don’t do this.”

“Or maybe it’s Natasha. I’ve seen the way you look at her, the way she looks at you – are you going to be the man who’s man enough for her? Or maybe you’re beholden to a bunch of stupid memories. Being strong for good old Peggy, still trying to impress _Howard_? They lived their lives, Steve, and they lived them without you. They _forgot_ about you. You owe them nothing.”

Steve clenches his fists at his sides and tries to block Tony out, closing his eyes tightly. Tony’s words are shredding him, because Tony hadn’t been lying about tearing him apart. The man knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly where it hurts the most. 

“And Bucky? You’d think he’d want to see you. Probably _only_ you. Wouldn’t you think, after discovering you were still alive, after that _miracle_ , your best friend would jump at the chance to see you again? No. In fact he locked himself up just to make sure you couldn’t get to him. So, me, I wonder, what the hell did you _do_ to him, Rogers?” 

Tony is piling on the pressure because Tony wants him to explode, to send pieces of himself viciously flying out in every direction like jagged shrapnel. Instead Steve dissolves, every part of him grinding thinner and thinner as Tony presses, until there’s nothing left but dust. 

“I killed him, Tony.” Steve opens his eyes and lets Tony see how much he means it. How much of it is the truth. 

“I know that you didn’t.”

“May not have fired the shot, but it’s my fault that he died.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” 

Steve laughs bitterly, boggled by how one person can be so utterly contrary, attacking him one moment and assuring him the next. 

Then Tony’s hand is on his face, gently stilling his pained laughter. Steve steps back, frightened by the look on Tony’s face, even more frightened by how it makes him feel. 

“Don’t, Tony.” 

“Don’t what?” Tony’s other hand comes to rest on his crossed forearms, and he’s moving closer. 

“Just…don’t.” He tries to back up some more and suddenly finds nothing but air beneath his feet. And then he’s falling. 

Literally falling. 

It’s a short drop into the pond. 

He breaks the surface fast, spitting water and gasping for air. He rubs water from his eyes and pushes back his drenched hair from his forehead, struggling to see. 

Tony stares at him wide-eyed, his arms still outstretched from evidently trying to keep Steve from falling. And then…he’s _laughing._ Doubled over, busting his gut, laughing. 

“Holy shit, Cap, I can’t _believe_ that just happened.” Tony’s challenging, somber mood has been split wide open; he’s giddy with glee now. “You were…and suddenly, you weren’t, you were gone, you were-“ He makes a whooshing, splashing noise, accompanied by a visual demonstration with his hands to show the explosion of water. 

“I’m fine, Stark, thanks.” Steve mutters darkly as he drags himself toward the pond’s edge, his clothes a clinging, wet weight on his body. Tony’s mood may have shifted, but his hasn’t. He’d been perfectly all right not fifteen minutes ago and then Tony had to come down and ruin everything. Now he’s wet and tired and upset, and Tony’s enjoying it.

He’s a fool if there ever was one.

Steve glowers as Tony tries to sober up, bending down and offering Steve a hand. It’s petty, but Steve grabs it quickly and pulls forward before he has time to think about what he’s doing. Tony tumbles into the pond beside him. The splash is gratifying. 

Tony pulls himself up from the water slowly, blinking at Steve with a disgruntled yet disbelieving look on his face. He sets his jaw, ticking it sideways as he grinds his teeth. 

“Well. Didn’t think you had that in you, Cap.”

Steve smiles a little, his anger abating at the sight of Tony dripping like a drowned rat. Tony drags his hands over his face and then pushes his hair back, thumbs his nose. His undershirt sticks to him like a second skin and the arc reactor appears even brighter in the darkness. 

“Anyone else, I would’ve expected that, but you…” Tony sounds disappointed and Steve rolls his eyes, slaps his hand against the water. The resultant splash hits Tony directly in the face, just as he intended.

“Why, you little punk.” Tony uses his whole arm to sweep water in Steve’s direction. Soon they’re both laughing and out of breath. 

The patio door opens and they stop mid-fight. Pepper stands there with her hand on her hip, backlit by the warm light from inside the house. 

“Really, Tony?” She asks, tired.

“You’re not going to believe me, but he started it.” Tony replies and Pepper shakes her head, turns to go back inside.

“You’re right, I don’t believe you.” She leaves the door open in a silent instruction for them to come back inside. “I’ll get some towels.” She calls back over her shoulder with the practiced air of someone who’s had to do something like this many times before.

Tony and Steve look back to each other at the same time and Steve can’t help but join him when Tony bursts out laughing again. 

They drag themselves out of the pond and sit on its edge, legs dangling in the water. 

“Hey. Look. Sorry I pushed so hard on the Bucky issue. I said some things-“

“Don’t apologize. Didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” Steve brushes Tony off with a shrug. “I certainly can’t pretend to know why you’re here, Tony, but I can imagine there are a million other places you’d rather be than babysitting me while I run away from this thing like…well, like a big baby. I'm sure it's frustrating to have to deal with this."

“That’s not at all-“

“You can’t deny you’re wondering why I’m not in New York trying to convince Bucky to see me.” 

“Rogers, against orders you dropped behind enemy lines and launched a solo invasion against an enemy base, rescuing hundreds of men from crazed Nazis, and you did it all to save your friend.” Tony states. “So believe me when I tell you, I’m not the only one wondering why you’re letting a pesky little order from Nick Fury keep you away from Barnes.”

Steve sets his lips in a thin line and takes his time picking the words to use to explain this to Tony. He stares off past the tree line into the darkness, trying not to think of the last time he ever saw Bucky, trying to remember the first time he ever did. He’d been ten; his father dead before he was born, his mother already gone three years, and his grandmother had passed four days before. He had no more family left. The other boys were already on his back, and he’d arrived at dinner with his shirt ripped, a split lip and a fresh black eye. Bucky sat down next to him and silently offered his piece of bread. 

He doesn’t know any words that can truly tell Tony how much that had meant. 

“Bucky…he could’ve had an easy life. Sure, he was an orphan, like me, but he was different, Tony. He was something else. He had the looks, the smarts, the charm – he coulda had anything he wanted and he gave it all up, time ‘n time again, to be best friends with an annoying runt like me. I dunno why he did it." Steve shakes his head, smiling sadly. His wet hair is dripping into his eyes again and he pushes it back, and then sets his hands firmly back on his knees.

“Me, I was nothing but bad luck. He was always stuck digging me out of scrapes, savin’ my ass when some bully had me cornered…can’t think of how many dates ‘a his I ruined because he insisted his dame bring a friend so I could tag along. You shoulda seen those poor gals’ faces – expecting a setup with a good lookin’ guy like Buck and then looking over, lookin’ down, seeing me.” He chuckles, but Tony doesn’t. “Anyway. Point is, Bucky’s had a million and one reasons to turn his back on me. Things would’ve been a helluva lot easier for him if he had. But he never did. Not once.” 

Steve pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath and looking Tony in the eyes to make sure the man understands him this time. 

“So if Bucky doesn’t want to see me now…he really doesn’t want to see me. And I can’t say as I blame him.” 

Tony stares back at him, his eyes wide and dark in the dim light and his gaze intent. Half his face is illuminated by the warm glow emanating from inside the house, his chin and jaw line contrasted with a hint of blue from the arc reactor. It’s strange to see Tony so still, so quiet, and Steve’s never been the target of Tony’s laser-like focus for so long. 

Steve shifts, glancing toward the house. He doesn’t really have anything more to say about Bucky now, and he’s wet and cold and finally beginning to feel tired enough to sleep. 

He’s about to get up when Tony finally speaks.

“You know…you are so Brooklyn when you talk about him.” Steve stops, confused. Tony makes a gesture up and down his own throat and around his mouth, like that somehow indicates _voice_. “Your accent. You get all John Turturro.”

Steve can’t really believe the words coming out of Tony’s mouth right now. He should’ve known better than to open himself up to this. To _Tony._

“Just…fuck you, Stark.” 

“You swear a lot more too.” Tony’s mouth twitches a little, like he’s fighting a smile, and Steve’s really had it. He moves to get up but Tony moves too. He puts a hand on Steve’s bicep and tugs him back. His touch is warm against Steve’s damp skin. “Hey, c’mon. I like it.” 

“I don’t care if you _like_ it, Tony, do you think I’m in the mood for your jokes?“

Tony reaches over, cradles Steve’s face against his palm and guides Steve to look at him. Steve is surprised enough to let him this time. He’s even more surprised by the unguarded look of fondness in Tony’s eyes, the softness of his expression.

“Wasn’t kidding.” Steve gets it then, that maybe Tony responded this way because he knew better than to argue. Knew better than to insist that Steve was wrong, or that Bucky’s mind could be changed or things could be talked out. Tony knew he needed to feel something other than pain and self-recrimination. 

“Tony…” Steve wraps his fingers around Tony’s wrist under the pretext of pulling his hand away but instead leaves them there. He closes his eyes, not wanting to admit how nice it is to have someone touch him like this. Like they care. 

Tony leans his forehead against Steve’s for a moment and they share the same air, letting a few quiet moments pass as they just breathe together. 

“C’mon.” Tony breaks the moment by patting Steve’s cheek, pulling away. “If I was cold before, I’m fucking freezing now.” He stands up and waits for Steve to follow him. “That pond’s dangerous, I should fill it in with concrete and dance on its grave.” 

Tony’s kidding, spitefully glaring at the water as he shivers. For a cold man, his skin is surprisingly flushed. 

“Dunno, I kinda like it,” Steve replies, moving toward the house as Pepper reappears in the doorway, holding up two oversized towels. Tony falls in step beside him.

“Huh. Then I suppose it’s not pointless after all.” He grins and ducks inside before drying off, dripping all over the plush carpet. Pepper huffs. He grants the pond a reprieve, popping back to glance over Pepper’s shoulder and waving toward it like its been forgiven. “All right, you can stay.”

Tony pauses, sniffing the air as Pepper shoves a towel at his face. He grabs it and wraps it around his neck, accomplishing nothing as water from his clothes still soaks the floor.

“Oh, that’s right. I made popcorn. Which is brilliant, cause I’m starving.” He snaps his fingers and heads for the kitchen. “Steven, get changed and get back down here, we have a movie to watch.”

Pepper looks at Steve with a frown and Steve does his best to look contrite. She hands him a towel. 

“You two are ridiculous, I hope you know that.”

Steve picks up the hem of his shirt and pulls it away from his body, twisting and squeezing from the fabric all the water he can before coming in. 

“I really am terribly sorry, ma’am.”

“I knew he was gonna be a bad influence on you.” Pepper’s smiling now though, and she reaches up to ruffle his wet hair. “Though you did just call me ma’am after I’ve _repeatedly_ told you not to, so I suppose you really may be incorruptible.”

“Sorry, Pepper. We really didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Apology accepted. I woke up a while ago when Tony left anyway. Now go get into some dry clothes and get some sleep, the movie can wait for another time.” She sighs to herself, running a hand through her strawberry blond hair. “I sound like my mother.”

“Well, I’m sure your mother was a wonderful woman.” Pepper looks at him strangely, narrowing her eyes as if she’s puzzling something out. It occurs to Steve that maybe that was the wrong thing to say; he knows nothing about Pepper’s parents or her relationship with them. “Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed to say anything-“

Pepper laughs softly, her smile affectionate. 

“God, after so much time with Tony, I’ve forgotten that people can say things like that and not be sarcastic or glib. You’ll have to forgive me, I’m not used to a real gentleman.” 

“I’m a real gentleman!” Tony hollers from the kitchen.

“Yeah, and, if you’ll excuse me, Steve, that ‘gentleman’ has the _great_ idea to take you to Vegas tomorrow and I need to go try and talk him out of it. Again.” 

“Vegas?” 

He knows Pepper won’t agree, but he thinks Vegas with Tony might be fun.

*******

Vegas with Tony is not fun.

It’s overwhelming.

To be fair, even without Tony it would’ve been a lot to handle. There are too many lights, too many people, and too much noise. It’s an assault on his already hyperactive senses and it leaves him constantly tense, incessantly on his guard. After only a few hours inside Caesar’s Palace watching Tony gamble, Steve quietly excuses himself to their room.

And by room he means the fancy VIP suite that Tony pulled for them at a moment’s notice. Steve bypasses the living and dining room area, loosens his tie, turns off the lights, and collapses onto the impossibly soft queen-size bed without bothering to rid himself of his brand new suit coat or his shoes. 

He stares at the ceiling and just breathes. The darkness is comforting. Maybe with a little time he could get used to this city – something in its swirl of color does tug at his artistic sensibilities, even if his brain is too cluttered at the moment to sort it all out – but that’s not going to happen tonight. 

He must fall asleep because the next thing he knows, he’s waking with a start, ripped from another bad dream where Bucky is falling, falling, falling and he’s helpless to stop it. The digital clock shows four hours have passed; it’s dark outside. At first he’s a little confused as to where he is, but as soon as he sits up and looks out the huge plate glass window over the Vegas Strip, it all rushes back. His heartbeat starts to even out. 

“Oh good, you’re up.”

Steve shifts, looking behind him to find Tony on the other bed, sitting up against the headboard with his tablet propped up on his knees. The screen casts a white glow onto his face. His tie is loose around his neck, the top three buttons of his maroon button down undone. 

“Tony?” Steve rolls his neck, slightly stiff from sleeping. “What’re you doin’, sittin’ alone in the dark?”

“I came up shortly after you did, but you were sleeping,” Tony replies simply. If he’d picked up on Steve’s nightmare, he’s kind enough not to bring it up. “I had some work to catch up on.”

“You shoulda woke me up.” Steve feels a little embarrassed. He had figured Tony would go about his business as usual; he hadn’t meant to be a drag on Tony’s fun. “You’ve just been sitting here?”

“You’ve barely slept at all this entire trip so it seemed idiotic to wake you. And like I said, I had work to do.” Tony reaches over and switches on the bedside table lamp. Steve blinks but his eyes adjust quickly to the bright light. “Pepper needed these reports weeks ago, so it’s good I got them out of the way.”

Pepper hadn’t been too thrilled that Tony insisted on Vegas, and she had gone on to Malibu without them, so Steve figures Tony must be doing his work in an attempt to smooth things over. 

“Oh. Good." Steve stands, looks down at his own clothes and finds them surprisingly unrumpled. Tony seems to read his thoughts.

“I know, miracle of modern menswear, right? After years of making fantastical messes of myself, we’ve ascertained which fabrics will stand up to a Stark.” Tony smiles, but Steve notices it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You hungry? There’re only about a million places around here so geared toward gluttony that even Thor would be shocked.”

“Doubt that’s possible.” 

“Eh, you’re right. Thor’s an I can eat fifty eggs kinda guy, I doubt he’d be daunted.” Tony gets up too, tossing his tablet rather carelessly back onto the bed. He picks up his suit coat from the back of the nearest armchair and slides it on, fixing his collar. “So, what do you feel like? Steak? Lobster? Both?”

Steve glances at the clock again. It’s already a quarter past ten. 

“It’s not too late?”

“Cap, if New York is the city that never sleeps, Vegas is the city that dropped acid and hasn’t realized it’s been awake and staggering the streets for three days.” He takes his own tie completely off, but then walks to Steve and reaches to tighten his tie. He smoothes the fabric down the center of Steve’s chest, hand running down and back up. Steve’s breath catches a little. “Every place is open, and there’s any kind of food you could want. So name it, we’ll find it.”

“Grilled cheese.” Steve states and Tony’s hands stall at Steve’s collar. 

“Grilled cheese.” Tony repeats, his tone as full of _you’re shitting me_ as it can get. Steve nods, though he’s not entirely sure if that’s what he wants or if that’s just the first thing that came to mind that would throw Tony for a loop. Tony tugs Steve’s suit coat to sit straight on his shoulders and then steps away. “Your first time in Sin City and you really want to go out and get…grilled cheese.”

Steve nods again. He’d rather not go out at all, but considering Tony spent the last few hours sitting in a dark hotel room while Steve snored the evening away, he can’t imagine saying so. He’ll do whatever Tony wants. 

“Okay then, Cap, grilled cheese it is.”

It’s grilled cheese and about a hundred other things. There’s more food than he can possibly eat and more liquor than Tony can drink. Afterward, they try The Comedy Stop and while Steve tries to laugh when everyone else does, most of the time he doesn’t really understand the reference or he flat out doesn’t think it’s funny. Fortunately, Tony seems to agree the guy’s a stinker and they’re off to a different club, and then a different casino, The Venetian. Tony gives him a stack of chips and tells him not to worry about blowing it. 

He thoroughly enjoys the look on Tony’s face when he gets dealed in on a game and proceeds to double his stack in short order. He cashes them in, hands Tony his seed money and pockets the rest, mainly just to get Tony’s goat. 

“Bucky?” Tony asks, a little reluctantly, and Steve nods, managing a smile to let Tony know it’s all right. “He teach you anything else?” 

Steve shrugs and smirks, maybe wanting to keep something in his back pocket for a later time. There are only so many ways to keep Tony Stark on his toes. 

“Please tell me you can count cards. Because that would be amazing,” Tony asks hopefully as they pass the black jack pits. 

“I can’t imagine that with a mind like yours, you can’t count cards, Stark,” Steve snorts. 

“Course I can, but Captain America, card sharp, that’s something else. Who’d suspect you? We can get a little _Rain Man_ action going.”

“What’s a rain man?”

“It’s a movie. This guy takes his autistic brother to Vegas and they count cards.”

“Doesn’t sound very interesting.”

“There’s more to it, but we can leave the Roger Ebert impressions for later.”

“Who?”

“Movie critic,” Tony frowns. “I feel like we might be falling down a rabbit hole here, maybe we better leave _Rain Man_ alone.”

“I understand the rabbit hole reference?” Steve offers helpfully. Tony laughs and drags him over to roulette, telling Steve to pick his number. 

After that, Steve loses track of time. They leave that casino only after a young woman approaches him in the lounge and strikes up a conversation. Tony’s drink has turned watery in his hand before Tony appears to extricate him from the awkward situation. He seems amused at Steve being propositioned by a prostitute, but his mood turns slightly dark for a little while afterward. Steve thinks maybe Tony expected him to be a little more mortified than he was, but mainly Steve felt saddened by such a lovely dame being in such desperate straits. 

Tony’s mood lifts when they pass the Bellagio, his dark eyes dancing with the reflected light from the fountains. He grabs Steve by the hand and hurriedly pulls him into the lobby of the grand hotel. 

“Tony, this isn’t where we’re staying, are we allowed to-“

“Look up.” Tony instructs him, pointing to the ceiling. Steve does, and his breath leaves him in an awed rush. 

“Oh… _wow_ ,” he whispers, his gaze moving rapidly over the swirl of colors and delicate glass, trying to take it all in at once. 

“I thought you’d like it.” Tony isn’t looking at the sculpture on the ceiling, Tony’s looking at him, and when Steve looks back, he feels an immense rush of gratitude toward Tony for being, well, _Tony_. 

“I love it.”

Tony’s still holding his hand. Steve knows he should let go. He doesn’t.

The next night is Céline Dion, who is apparently some big time singer from Canada. She’s got a great voice and puts on a heck of a show. When he leans over to Tony midway through her first set, ready to tell Tony so, Tony speaks before he does.

“I know, it’s wretched, we can go.” Tony assures him with a knowing smile. Steve tries to hide his confusion and disappointment as quickly as he can, but Tony must catch it. “Oh, shit, you like it? Rogers, this was supposed to be a joke. Like a go to Vegas, see Wayne Newton and the Elvis impersonators and the guys with the tigers kind of a kitschy thing to do.”

“Didn’t one of those guys get mauled?” Steve asks, and off Tony’s look of surprise, continues. “Thor brought it up at breakfast the day he came back. He ‘wished to see the mighty sparkling warriors who tame the white beasts on a vast plane of glittering stars’. Apparently he’s been shoring up his Midgardian history by reading old travel magazines Miss Lewis had at Dr. Foster’s lab.”

“Well, I brought the wrong person to Vegas, clearly,” Tony comments. Steve starts to get up, figuring that they should go if Tony’s not enjoying the concert, but Tony pulls him back to his seat. “No, no, sit down, you big lug. I think she’s about to wail out that song from _Titanic_ and you’re probably going to cry.”

He doesn’t cry. But after another half hour, Tony looks bored to tears so Steve takes pity. They wander the Strip for a while, Tony talking and Steve looking. Tony has a story about almost every single establishment – a girl, a party, a drug, always something. It’s ostensibly for Steve’s amusement, but Steve doesn’t find it all that amusing. It’d be much better if Tony would risk being quiet and just be.

But Tony’s prattling does distract him from the fact they’re not really pointlessly meandering; he realizes too late that Tony has a destination in mind. Their journey ends at a ‘40s style swing club well off the main drag. Strains of “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” blast from inside whenever someone opens the front door to go in or out. Twenty-first century men and women go passed him dressed in styles that, for him, were current six months ago. Steve’s past is a nostalgic curiosity for them, something to be put on for fun like a Halloween costume. 

“I found this place, should be perfect for you. Lots of lovely dames, it’ll be like swingin’ at the Savoy.” Tony explains happily, gesturing for Steve to lead the way in. Steve hesitates, debating about whether or not he should go along with this to make Tony happy, because the man’s clearly trying and he doesn’t want to be rude, not after all Tony’s done for him the past few days…

But he can’t do it. Not this.

“I’m actually kinda tired. Maybe we should head back.”

“What? No! The night is young!” Tony’s exuberant, switched completely _on_. He rubs Steve’s shoulder. “C’mon, old timer, you’ll get a second wind.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay out, Tony. I can certainly find my own way back, I don’t want to put a damper on your evening.” Steve takes two steps backward, but Tony advances. 

“I don’t want to go here without you,” Tony says, more like _blurts_ , the words seeming to escape his mouth. “This…this was supposed to be a thing you would like.”

“I appreciate the thought, Tony. I do…but if it’s all the same, I think I’ll just go back to the hotel.”

It’s like he pulled the plug; all the light drains from Tony’s face. 

“Okay. Yeah. We can do that.” Tony steps out into the street, flags down a cab with crisp efficiency. 

“Tony…”

“It’s copasetic, Cap.” Tony holds open the cab door and Steve reluctantly climbs in, half afraid Tony’s going to slam the door behind him and send him back to the hotel alone. He may have said he could go back on his own, but he doesn’t want to leave Tony on this note. To his relief, Tony gets in after him. 

The ride back is tense and silent. Whenever Steve glances at Tony, the other man’s gaze is firmly directed out the window. Steve doesn’t know what to say; Tony’s clearly upset but Steve doesn’t know how to fix it. 

Crossing the lobby of Caesar’s Palace, Tony’s all charm and bright smiles for the staff he knows and the few people who recognize him, but the façade abruptly crashes the second he and Steve are alone in the elevator. 

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve says quietly, at a loss, as the doors close. Tony frowns, then smiles a little, then frowns again. He doesn’t say anything as the elevator smoothly starts moving upward, just faces forward and stares at the wall. 

“Tony…”

“So. _Rain Man_. It’s about this absolute lout of a guy who finds out, after his father dies, that he has an older brother who is autistic and has spent his life in a home. His dad, who was pretty much the asshole to end all assholes, actually leaves all the family money to _him_ , this long-lost brother. So this douche, who’s pissed about his crappy childhood and pissed about being lied to and generally pissed about everything a person can be pissed about, he basically takes his brother hostage and they hit the road.”

Steve doesn’t reply. For some reason, he knows he’s not supposed to, which is fine because he doesn’t really have anything intelligent to say. 

“So the brother, the autistic one, is a savant with numbers so the douche takes advantage and uses him to beat the house in Vegas. Anyway, long story short, somewhere along the way, this guy, this jerk, he finally sees past his own bullshit and he realizes what having this brother, this really special brother, means to him. How important that is. So he’s trying, and _trying_ to fix it, and he just can’t. He can’t do anything right.”

Tony takes a deep breath, rubs his forehead. 

“I keep trying, Cap. I am. But I can’t get anything right.”

It hurts that he’s made Tony feel that way, but Steve knows enough to realize that any reassurances now, Tony’s going to write off as false platitudes. Even if they are the truth. 

They’re almost to their floor, though, and Steve also knows he has to say _something_ before those doors open. 

“I don’t know how to dance, Tony.” Steve looks at his hands as he speaks, too many memories rushing forward. The doors ding open but Tony remains where he is. Steve forces himself to lift his gaze. “Peggy said she was going to teach me.”

There’s that look on Tony’s face now, that one full of pity that Steve had wished to avoid. But he may as well keep going, since he’s started. 

“The Stork Club...’Eight o’clock, on the dot. Don’t you dare be late.’” The doors threaten to close and Steve steps into the entryway, keeping them from doing so. “First real date I was ever gonna have and I had to stand her up.”

The elevator begins to beep in alarm, the doors held open too long. 

“I’m real sorry I ruined the evening.” Steve steps out, letting the doors go. Tony stands stock still for a moment, and then spurs to action just in time to slip into the hall. 

Tony picks up his pace and somehow winds up a few steps ahead. He stops at their door, his key card in the slot and his hand on the knob, and looks back at Steve. 

“Nothing’s ruined, Steve.” He states and pops the door open. He ducks inside and Steve hesitates before following him, once again unsure of where he and Tony stand with each other. 

Tony takes off his jacket and throws it onto one of the chairs, followed by his tie. Steve watches, confused, as Tony pushes some furniture around and creates an empty space in the center of the living room area. 

“I know how to dance.” Tony announces, unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves like he’s gonna teach Steve how to box instead of box step. With his hands he beckons Steve closer. Steve smiles awkwardly, getting what Tony’s trying to accomplish here, but feeling rather silly about it. 

“You’re not going to teach me how to dance, Stark.” 

“You bet your ass I am. Come over here.” Tony huffs, gestures even harder for him to move. Steve relents and moves to where Tony stands in the middle of the room. “Good. You’re going to lead, so…” Tony arranges Steve’s hands, putting one around his waist and extending the other, clasping it with his own. 

“Don’t we need music?” Steve asks, hoping for an out, but he should’ve known that in today’s day and age, finding music at any given point in time is a weak challenge.

“JARVIS? Something nice and slow,” Tony commands loudly and “Because You Loved Me” emanates from Tony’s phone, the sound clear even from inside Tony’s pocket. Steve chuckles. 

“Céline Dion. He has a sense of humor,” Steve comments and Tony rolls his eyes, pulls Steve closer. 

“JARVIS, how about something that doesn’t make my ears bleed.” The next tune is one Steve doesn’t recognize, but it makes Tony pull out his phone and hit the off switch with a violent shudder. “Aerosmith? Christ, JARVIS, I wonder about you sometimes.” He fiddles around for a minute, then presses a final button and then sets the phone aside on one of the end tables.

Tony slides his hand over Steve’s shoulder as “The Nearness of You” begins – a tune he actually recognizes. He had the Glenn Miller record; he doesn’t know who’s singing this version but her voice is warm and smooth. Steve lets Tony arrange his hands back the way they were before, biting his lip to keep himself from protesting. Tony Stark should not have to teach him how to dance; this is going to be embarrassing for the both of them. 

Tony starts to move, small movements at first. Steve tries to match him, unsure.

“Shouldn’t you be telling me what to do?”

“I’ve seen how you move in the field, Cap, I really don’t think you need to be told what to do,” Tony says. Steve opens his mouth to counter that opinion but Tony cuts him off. “We can take on the waltz next time. This time out, just do what feels natural.” 

Steve nods, glancing down at his feet. Tony lifts the hand that was on his shoulder and puts a finger underneath Steve’s chin, tilting his head back up. 

“Eyes up, Steve.” His smile is soft and genuine, and Steve feels a faint tightening around his heart as Tony holds his gaze unwaveringly. Their bodies draw closer together, and Steve isn’t sure who moved, him or Tony. But that hardly seems to matter so he just holds Tony more tightly, palm sliding from Tony’s waist to his lower back. They’re almost cheek-to-cheek; Tony’s soft, dark hair brushes the side of his face.

Tony’s cologne is rich and heady, a smell Steve’s become strangely accustomed to over the past week. It’s a comforting scent, one that now clings to his own clothes after being by Tony’s side all day long. Tony’s body is warm against his, and Steve wonders if dancing is really supposed to feel this good when it’s for practice. When it’s with Tony. 

Is it always this easy to get lost in someone else’s arms? He feels like he’s drifting, Tony’s embrace the only thing keeping him from floating away.

They’re really just swaying together now, rocking slowly back and forth. It’s not complicated like the dances he used to watch from the sidelines, the ones Bucky could do with ease. Tony probably knows harder steps, could show him if he asked, but Steve’s happy like this, not really learning anything but how to be close to someone. 

“Thanks, Tony,” Steve murmurs, drawing his head back slightly. He smiles, really meaning it. Tony’s returning smile seems a little broken, and he visibly swallows before responding. 

“Not a problem, Cap.” His gaze flicks away for a moment and then darts back, something like panic building behind his eyes. Steve tenses because something’s clearly gone wrong, and he’s about to ask what when Tony moves, adjusting his grip in Steve’s hand and turning away. “Hey, spin me.”

Steve knows he’s supposed to turn Tony around, bring him back in so they’re face to face, but his hand’s gone clammy and his fingers slip through Tony’s. He ends up letting go and Tony stumbles. 

“Sorry, Tony, I didn’t know-“

“Guess you weren’t quite ready for that yet.” Tony’s grin is careful and strained. He claps his hands, shaking his head like it’s no big deal. “That’s okay, we’ll work up to it.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. But the song ends and it’s twice as awkward now as it ever was before. Tony doesn’t move back toward him so Steve stays exactly where he is. Tony puts his hand against his own chest, fingers tapping against the arc reactor’s glass through his shirt for a moment before he places his palm flat over his stomach. 

“I’m actually kinda hungry – could you eat? We can order up from room service.”

Tony doesn’t wait for his answer before practically racing to get the menu from the bedroom. 

Another song has started on Tony’s phone, so Steve quietly crosses the room and turns it off. It’s not his unfulfilled promise to Peggy that haunts him as he waits in silence for Tony to come back, and he can still feel the ghost of Tony’s hand in his.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve is swimming. It’s midnight and Tony should be taking advantage of the workshop the Malibu house has to offer, but here he is standing stock still in his living room, looking down as Steve completes lap after lap after lap. 

Pepper’s sitting on the couch, papers strewn everywhere as she signs off on plans to begin construction on a clean energy powered tower in Los Angeles. She’s completely unaware that he’s watching the way water slip slides over Steve’s sleek muscles as he strokes gracefully across the pool. He can swim the whole length twice over without lifting his head to breathe. 

He seems so far away, somehow, and Tony wants to go down there, if only for the sake of being closer. 

Tony’s going to make a massive mess of things.

It’s a particular Stark talent, one that occasionally makes an appearance on the business side but shines brightly and often when it comes to personal matters. 

From the moment Fury told him that some Russian oil tanker had discovered Captain America deep in the Artic, frozen but against all odds alive, Tony should have counted on this happening. 

Maybe if he’d been honest with Pepper from the start about Steve Rogers being an emotional hand grenade, she would’ve been able to pull him clear of the blast zone. But he’d given her half-truths, a partial rendering of an incomplete picture. This isn’t the kind of thing that can be extrapolated correctly, much less from corrupted data.

Pepper knows that as a kid he used to have Captain America figurines, that Cap was his childhood hero; she doesn’t know that the toys were rare personal gifts from his father, or that on the occasional, special nights that his dad was home and _happy_ , Howard would share bedtime tales of the Captain’s unfailing bravery and goodness. 

She knows that at some point Howard stopped talking about Steve Rogers and grew bitter and sad, snapping whenever the subject was brought up; she doesn’t know that’s when Howard began drinking more heavily, or that’s when his parents’ fighting became an everyday fixture in the Stark household. 

She knows that upon meeting Steve, he’d been ready and willing to hate the man; she doesn’t know that he’d secretly hoped Captain America would be everything Howard said he was and how disappointed and hurt he’d been when Steve Rogers turned out to be just another guy, and one who didn’t much care for Tony either. 

And Pepper knows that things have changed. That Steve really is pure-hearted and wonderful and everything his father made him out to be, but he’s also human and imperfect and even more amazing than Howard ever let on. Maybe more than Howard ever knew. She knows that Tony and he are okay. Maybe even friends. What Pepper doesn’t know is that Tony’s been dreaming of Steve at night – hot, heavy dreams where Steve’s buried deep inside of him and making Tony groan out his name as they come together. Not enemies, not friends, but lovers. 

Pepper _definitely_ doesn’t know he’s had these dreams before. He’s steadfastly pretended he hasn’t, never spoken a word about it to anyone. He’ll never admit one of his earliest sexual experiences was pumping himself empty all over a photo of Steve – Steve as _Steve_ , not even as the Cap – that he’d lifted from his father’s things. He’d burned the come-splattered picture afterward. He has tried to forget the wet dreams of his teenage years and the carefully constructed fantasies of his jerk-off sessions in college. His list of former bedmates includes only a few men, but if anyone had pointed out to him that they were all tall, blue-eyed blondes, he would’ve _insisted_ it was mere coincidence. Perhaps passed it off as a Nordic fetish and joked that he planned on opening a division of Stark Industries in Sweden just to expand and refresh his dating pool. 

Starks have a natural gift for denial, too. 

But now that he has the details, all this knowledge of the _real_ Steve Rogers – how he smiles, how he talks, how his body feels under his hands – it’s too much pressure for his already strained subconscious to withstand. He cracks a little more every time he sees Steve wake in the morning, hair mussed and his voice deliciously rough and so New York, separated from him by the mere few feet from one hotel bed to the other. Fissures expand whenever he thinks about Steve coming out of that bathroom in only that towel or emerging dripping wet from the pond in Aspen; crevasses deepen when he recalls Steve pulling to the side of the road to help some stranger with a flat tire, or wasting precious daylight letting some old lady talk his ear off at the convenience store. 

He barely holds it together if he thinks about taking Steve in his arms to dance, or the way Steve’s hand felt in his as Steve looked up, wondrous and beautiful, at the Chihuly ceiling in Vegas. In those moments all he wanted to do was give Steve the world. 

So even if Pepper had all the facts, she probably wouldn’t have been able to stop this anyway. When Captain Steven G. Rogers opened his eyes on the year 2012, Tony falling in love with him was a foregone conclusion. 

In the logical part of his brain and the sensible chamber of his heart, he doesn’t want to do this to Pepper. If – _when_ – he does this, goes after Steve, it’s going to mean losing her for good. It’s a huge risk that he doesn’t want to take, especially since being with Steve is beyond wishful thinking and Pepper’s so real, and so very much his. 

But it’s only a matter of time before he loses his battle against the impulse. Steve is going to smile a certain way or say some impossibly perfect thing and Tony’s going to break Pepper’s heart. 

Tony Stark’s been many things, and broken many rules, and people can lay any number of grievous misdeeds at his door, but he’s never been a cheater. 

Steve is climbing from the pool, water streaming down that vast expanse of his back, down his strong legs. He’s wearing dark trunks that amount to little more than boxer briefs as they cling to his skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Yet Tony’s imagination runs _wild_ anyway, and in his mind he’s already halfway through peeling those trunks down and wrapping his mouth around Steve’s cock before he catches himself fantasizing. 

He wonders at what point faithfulness becomes mere semantics, an arbitrary line drawn in the sand. Thoughts are thoughts and actions are actions, and there _is_ a difference. Yet it feels like he’s already cheating. 

He glances at Pepper, guilty, and moves away from the window. He goes to the bar and fixes himself a bourbon. He pours Pepper one too; she secretly likes the hard stuff when paperwork is giving her a headache. 

She looks up from her laptop and gives him a grateful smile when he slides the glass onto the coffee table beside her heavy binder of governmental regulations. 

Tony pauses for a moment, watching his girlfriend work. Running his company, saving his life. 

Then he goes back to the window. 

Steve’s sitting at the edge of the pool, body bathed in refracted light as the reflection of rippling water shimmers over his skin. He’s been quiet since they left Vegas, but not quiet in the way he’d been before.

Before, when the silence between them had been loaded and awkward, like Steve was accepting Tony’s presence reluctantly but was too polite to tell him to shove off. Tony had taken advantage of that knowingly. 

Now it feels different. Steve’s silence isn’t passive-aggressively antagonistic or the slightest bit standoffish. Tony doesn’t even get the sense that Steve’s withdrawing, locking himself inside his head with thoughts of Bucky and other ghosts of his past. He’s warm toward Pepper, pleasant toward Tony, and the rest of the time he’s just…quiet. And calm. 

Apparently Tony’s got the market on tumult cornered. 

“Tony?”

“Hmmm?” Tony drags his gaze away from Steve and finds Pepper standing at the other end of the large window. She’s staring at him solemnly, and he wonders how long she’s been standing there, watching him watch Steve. Because in all honesty he doesn’t have any idea how long he’s been staring this time and it could be hard to explain away. 

“Why did your parents fight about Steve?” 

It’s not the question he expected. Tony shifts, folding his arms protectively over his chest. He turns back to the window, not so much to look at Steve now but more to _not_ look at Pepper. 

“Does that really matter?” Pepper remains silent but she doesn’t move away. It’s her way of not backing down so he supposes yes, it does matter. “My mother wanted Howard to stop looking for him. All those trips he would take to the Artic…he’d be gone too often, it took too much money, and every time he failed he just got that much angrier. It was all for nothing, Cap’s body was never going to be found, and she wanted to put an end to it.”

He can feel the weight of Pepper’s gaze resting on the side of his face, unrelenting. He hates that she can read him so well. Usually she lets him slide when he’s holding something back, says something to let him off the hook, but this time she doesn’t. 

“Tony, why did your parents fight about Steve?” She asks again, the addition of _This time, the whole truth_ implied. 

“They just _did_ , okay?”

“ _Tony_.”

“What?”

“Please don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Don’t pretend everything’s all right. It’s so obviously not all right. I need you to tell me _why_ – “

“Because she thought Howard was in love with him. Okay?” Tony’s never told anyone that before, but in admitting it aloud he suddenly knows it’s not true. 

“And was he?” Pepper is a little unsettled, but not nearly as surprised as Tony would’ve thought. Tony shakes his head.

“No. I used to think he was, though. Before I met Steve. Maybe even after.” Tony shrugs, rubbing his face as he steps away from the window and from Pepper. He needs another drink. 

“But now you don’t?”

“No.” It’d be easy to think otherwise and he understands why his mother might’ve done so. But it really had nothing to do with how beautiful Steve was, or how wonderful a person. He doubts now that Steve and his father were even that great of friends. It wasn’t adoration that drove Howard in his search; it was self-preservation. Captain America was the last weapon Howard Stark ever created that was more than chaos and destruction, an agent of good and not solely an agent of death. His father had merely been clinging to the source of his own redemption, maybe even the chance to replicate the serum and do it all again. Finding Steve, dead or alive, knowing what happened to him…

It wasn’t about love. 

“If it was about love, he never would’ve stopped looking.” Tony says it softly, not really realizing he’d spoken aloud. He shakes himself from it, and quickly sets himself to moving, adding fresh ice to his glass. He opens the bourbon with a hard tug and pours himself too much. “I sometimes wonder if Howard ever realized the tiny, _miniscule_ part he played in the whole thing. How very little he really had to do with what Captain America became.” 

He circles back around the bar, gesturing toward the window, in Steve’s general direction.

“You put anyone else in that machine and that experiment would’ve gone sideways. It had to be Steve. And maybe my dad did realize that, after Steve was gone, that Steve wasn’t just some guy he beefed up into a super soldier but that a truly good man had willingly sacrificed his life for the world. And maybe that’s why Howard was the way he was. Because he got to go on living and Steve died and he realized too late it should’ve been the other way around. Or maybe Steve had nothing to do with it at all, and Howard was Howard and that’s it. I can’t pretend I understand.”

Tony downs most of his drink in one gulp. Pepper is watching him calmly, waiting for him to wind down. 

“But I do know one thing for sure. My father was _not_ in love with him.”

Pepper’s face betrays nothing as she takes one step forward, reaches out and takes the glass from his loose grasp. 

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you in love with him?”

Tony’s phone starts buzzing. He hears it, but he can’t process the information, all he can think about is those six words Pepper just spoke, turning over and over in his head. He stares at Pepper, who stares back. The buzzing stops, but quickly begins again. Someone clearly wants to get a hold of him.

Just then Steve walks into the room, grey t-shirt sticking to his damp chest and a towel wrapped around his waist. 

He stops short inside the entryway, registering both the tension and the incessant buzz of Tony’s unanswered call. 

“Everything okay?” He asks. Tony takes advantage of the interruption to grab his phone, letting both Pepper and Steve’s questions go unanswered. 

When Tony picks up, there’s a burst of static and gunfire and then the line goes dead. 

“Something’s wrong.” He announces, quickly pulling up the message from one of the previously unreturned calls. It’s a video from Maria Hill. There’s a large gash above her eyebrow and her usually cool eyes are wide with panic. There’s commotion behind her. 

“Stark. SHIELD has been breached; the New York headquarters is under attack. I don’t care where you are, get Rogers and get the hell back here now. They’re here for Barnes. They’re here for-“ She looks off to her right and shouts something unintelligible. There’s an explosion and she disappears into a cloud of smoke and debris. 

Steve’s already at his side; he heard the whole thing. They exchange a long, hard look, and then Tony glances at Pepper. She nods, letting their personal matters be shoved aside as always.

“I’ll have them fire up the jet. We can be there-“

“No time.” He heads toward the garage. “I can get there faster on my own. I have a MARK VI here, it’ll have to do.”

“I’m going with you,” Steve announces needlessly, like Tony didn’t know he’d insist. 

“Exactly how are you going to do that, Rogers? It’s 3000 miles. You can’t exactly ride bitch with Iron Man, and I don’t have a passenger seat.” 

Surprisingly, it’s Pepper who interjects.

“You’ll figure it out,” she snaps at Tony, then turns to Steve. “I’ll grab you some decent clothes and meet you both downstairs.” 

“You notice she’s always finding you clothes? You’re her life size Ken doll,” Tony says as he and Steve run down the stairs, through Tony’s workshop to the connecting garage. He hits a few buttons and the MARK VI case begins to open, pushing pieces of the suit forward as other parts of the cavernous garage begin to light up and roar to life. 

He tosses Steve his phone without warning; Steve catches it with one hand. 

“See if you can get anyone on the horn. Banner, Hawkeye, Widow, _someone_. I want to know what we’re walking into.” Tony crosses to his main computer and works as quickly as he can, attempting to hack SHIELD’s mainframe. The whole network appears to be down, like someone turned off the power at the source. “Damn it.”

He frantically tries plan B, accessing the city’s power grid and seeing if these jack-offs got the power knocked off through Con Ed’s main terminal or if they did something manual on site. If it’s been blown to hell, there’s not much he can do about that from here. 

“Can’t get through to anyone,” Steve reports. He’s been standing behind him the whole time, one eye on what Tony’s doing and the other on the phone as he tries to call the Avengers, anyone he knows that’s at all connected with SHIELD. 

“JARVIS – sweep the New York residence, get anyone you can on the line.” 

“Certainly, sir.” 

“Suit up, Tony.” Steve urges him away from the computer. 

“Hang on, let me try this one more time.”

“Go put on the suit, I can do that.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just watched you do it. I can do it.” Steve physically moves him back and takes his place. “Put on the suit.” Tony stares at Steve’s fingers, moving exactly over the keys Tony first tried to access SHIELD. “ _Tony._ ”

“Right.” Tony snaps out of it. He’s halfway into the MARK VI when Pepper hurries into the lab barefoot, evidently having ditched her heels somewhere along the way in the name of expediency. 

“Any news?” She asks, breathless, as she holds out black sweats and a pair of running sneakers to Steve. She double takes at Steve typing out code fast and furiously. 

“Tony, I think I’m in –“ Steve shouts, but then a line of code shifts on the screen and he frowns. “No, now I’m not. The connection was lost.”

“So either someone’s watching the back door and kicking us out, or the power’s intermittent. Neither’s good. Get changed.” He’s ready except for the face plate, which he has flipped up as he crosses back to the computer, glancing at the screen and seeing what it’s doing. 

Steve ducks barely out of sight behind one of Tony’s sports cars and strips off his wet clothes efficiently and without much care for modesty. He emerges moments later clad in a black hoodie and sweatpants, shoving on the sneakers as he makes his way toward the garage’s exit. 

“Sir, there appears to be no one at the residence except for the custodial staff on the public floors of the tower.”

“Damn it,” Tony says again, shaking his head in dismay. “This ain’t lookin’ good, Cap.”

“How fast can you get us there?”

“Not fast enough.” He turns to Pepper – he never knows what to say to her at times like these, but this circumstance feels worse than ever. A casual quip to reassure her isn’t going to cut it. Tony looks at her, waiting a beat before he speaks, wanting her to fully understand. “I love you, Pepper.” 

She smiles weakly before lifting on tiptoe to place a soft kiss against his cheek. There are tears in her eyes when she steps back. 

“I know you do.” Pepper tucks her long hair back behind her ears and forces her gaze to Steve. “Be careful.”

“We will, Miss.” Steve replies, his voice automatically coming out Captain, smooth and commanding and reassuring. Pepper seems startled by the laugh that escapes her.

“Dammit, Steve, it’s Pepper.” A tear escapes, slipping down her cheek even as she laughs. She quickly brushes it away. It’s Steve who steps forward, concerned. He takes her elbows, pulling her into a half embrace and earnestly meeting her gaze.

“Whatever’s going on, we’ll fix it. I promise I’ll bring Tony back to you in one piece.” 

Pepper gives Steve a kiss too, brief and sweet, then brushes her thumb over his cheek like she’s wiping away the lipstick she left behind. She looks at Tony.

“Go on then, go save the world,” she says. Tony snaps the faceplate down. He walks clear of the garage and yanks Steve closer; holding him like Superman would Lois Lane. 

“We’ll figure out something better for next time.” Tony comments, tightening his arm around Steve’s waist as much as he possibly can. The last thing he wants to do is drop Captain America somewhere over the middle of Kansas. Steve nods tersely, firmly in assault mode and his mind on the mission alone.

They take off into the night sky and angle for New York. Tony fears what awaits them.

*******

It’s worse than he imagined.

“We should’ve stopped for your shield.” He scans the hallway for vital signs but the bodies underneath his feet are all just that – bodies. There’s no one here to save. 

“No time, Iron Man.” Steve flags him in one direction, signaling he’ll take the left on his own. Tony shakes his head.

“No way, Cap. No uniform, no shield, you’re sticking with me.” 

“Iron Man, at this point it’s more about finding survivors and figuring out what happened than winning the fight. This fight’s finished. We’ll cover more ground if we separate. That’s an order.” Steve moves too quickly, disappearing into the smoke. Tony can’t see worth shit.

“JARVIS, switch to thermal imaging.” Tony can read Steve’s heat signature and attempts to follow him, but a large blast echoes down the other hallway, powerful enough that he feels the vibration through his suit. Steve’s out of his radius before Tony turns his attention back, and he considers trying to catch up but knows it’s useless. Steve’s going to do what Steve wants to do, and that’s supposedly his prerogative as leader.

Someone less stubborn and more selfish should be the leader because he’s not sure he can handle it if Steve decides to throw himself on another grenade or crash another plane. Goddamn idiot doesn’t even have a comm link. He’s cut off from Tony completely. 

Tony clears the floor, finding no one left alive, and moves upward. It’s eerily quiet. The place is a jagged maze of broken glass, torn wires, and heavy debris. Sprinklers have come on and since turned off, water dripping everywhere and pooling under his feet. 

“Stark.” 

Tony whirls around, arm out and repulsors ready. 

“It’s Barton.” Clint announces before dropping from a hole in the ceiling. He looks a little worse for wear but he’s in one piece. The blood on his arms and face doesn’t appear to be his own. “I didn’t think anyone was able to get through to you.”

“Hill. Who’s still alive?”

“They tranq’ed Banner first off, before anything else even went down. It was a SHIELD agent, or at least someone dressed as a SHIELD agent. They knew what they were doing and they sure knew about the Hulk. But Bruce is alive and they don’t seem interested in him. Whoever they are, they’re still here – and they’re looking for something else.”

“Wonderful.”

“Did Cap come with you?”

“He’s here, god knows where. Dumbass thought we should split up. What about Nat?”

“Behind you.” Clint gestures and Tony turns, finds Natasha standing there as if she’d been there all along. Her red hair is wet, matted down, and there’s a gash in her leather suit, deep across her thigh. If she’s in pain she doesn’t show it.

“We’ve got movement two floors up,” She states, eyes trained on the ceiling like she can literally see the enemy through two stories of reinforced concrete. She slides a fresh clip into one of her guns; Tony doesn’t know where that came from. “Hill and Fury were moving Barnes, but that’s no guarantee they got out. We should go.” 

“Thor?” 

“In New Mexico with Jane.” Clint heads for the stairwell, yanking one of his arrows from the body of an enemy soldier that is strewn across the floor. The dead man’s uniform is non-descript and Tony doesn’t recognize anything familiar about his face or anything particularly special about his weaponry. “We couldn’t get through to him, I don’t know if Hill managed before communications were cut off.” 

The lights flicker on and then off, something behind them sparking. 

“Hill mentioned Barnes – is that what this is about?” Tony asks as they move. He should be out front but he doesn’t know his way around this place like Clint and Natasha do. He stays between them, weapons at the ready. 

“Far as we can tell, yes.” Natasha confirms.

“Is this Red Room?” Tony demands from her as Clint clears the stairwell and they begin to climb upward. “This is about Barnes defecting?”

“If I had to guess. But I don’t much like guessing.” She replies as Clint steps aside to cover the ascending staircase; she kicks open the door and enters the hallway, both guns drawn. “Clear. “

“Whoever they are, they’re bad enough news that Fury warned off the city’s emergency personnel,” Clint states. “He called for backup from other SHIELD locations but either the message never got out or no one showed.”

“We showed. The last message I got from Hill, she was in Fury’s communications room.” Tony points down the hall and Clint and Natasha file behind him. If there are any enemy fighters left, he’s better equipped to take the hit. 

The communications center, a vast cavernous space that actually rises up three stories, lays blown to pieces in front of him. There’s a huge hole in the far wall, blasted straight through to the outside. He can see the New York skyline stretching indifferently into the night. 

“Stark…?” Comes a weak voice down by his right foot. A bloody hand reaches up from the rubble, grabbing onto his ankle. 

“I’ve got Hill over here!” He shouts, bending down and lifting the chunks of shattered concrete quickly. Her face is stained dark with blood from a head wound and she’s wheezing, but she’s alive. 

“Fury.” She gestures somewhere to her right. “Fury’s got Barnes. Fury. Over there.” 

Clint finds Fury pinned underneath a comm unit and Natasha hurriedly helps him lift it. He’s barely conscious and his leg is clearly broken. His eye patch has been ripped off, revealing his scarred eye socket. Barnes lays a few feet away, unmoving. Clint slaps Fury’s cheeks, trying to get him to stir. 

“Director Fury! Nick, can you hear me?” 

Tony helps Maria free of the rubble and despite Tony’s warning not to move, she hobbles over to Fury’s side and reaches out a hand to shake his shoulder. 

“Director Fury!” She snaps and he stirs slightly, his good eye blinking open. 

“Barnes,” he mumbles, struggling to remain conscious. 

“Barnes is alive,” Tony assures him, using JARVIS to check the man for a pulse and finding it steady and strong. He’s just out like a light. “He’s sleeping it off, but he’s safe.”

“No, _Barnes_.” Fury repeats, like they’re supposed to understand what he means. 

“Was Barnes in on this?” Clint asks, whipping toward the unconscious man and pulling an arrow, as if Barnes might be faking and will rise to attack them soon as their backs are turned. Natasha shakes her head, grabs Clint’s arm and turns him back. The truth is dawning across her face and Tony wishes she’d say it already, whatever it is. “Nat, what’s wrong.”

“No. They’re not here for him.” Natasha looks at Tony. “Iron Man, where’s the Captain?”

“I told you-“

“Tony, _where’s Steve_?” Natasha’s off and running as the truth of the situation hits Tony like a freight train. It’s too late though. 

He hears it first, and then moments later Tony sees a Mi-24 helicopter flying away from the building, so close that he feels if he’d just been quick enough, he could’ve touched it. There’s a flash of blonde hair he would recognize anywhere, a prone form lying deathly still near the ‘copter’s open door. 

He doesn’t even stop to think before he’s jetting off after them, nothing but a desperate need to _get Steve back_ filling his vision. The helicopter is all he can see; it’s the only thing that matters. 

JARVIS increases power to the thrusters without being told. 

And then a strange blue light emits from the helicopter and Tony’s falling. Everything’s gone dark, his wiring short-circuiting and his programs failing. 

“JARVIS. JARVIS!” Tony is shouting to no one. He’s plummeting and the helicopter is getting further away. It was an EMP, he knows it, but he’d worked around that. An electromagnetic pulse shouldn’t affect his suit. This isn’t supposed to be happening. 

This isn’t supposed to be happening. 

The ground is coming up fast and he can’t believe this is how it’s going to end. Pepper…

And Steve. Steve. Steve’s already gone. He’s failed, and Steve’s gone. He can’t see the helicopter anymore. 

His falling ceases abruptly and he’s moving upward. 

“I have you, my friend.” 

Thor.

The demigod brings him back to the others and deposits him gently onto the cracked floor. Together they stand and stare over the city from the gaping hole in the side of SHIELD’s headquarters. 

No one moves. No one speaks. Clint sets a hand on his shoulder but Tony can’t feel it through his armor. There are sirens Dopplering up from the ground now, the NYPD and FDNY evidently deciding any countermand from Fury isn’t going to keep them out. 

“Can you catch up to their helicopter?” Tony turns to Thor, whose frown is deep and his usually joyful eyes sad. 

“My brother, I fear not. I know not which way they flew. However, I will gladly scour the skies for any sign of their whereabouts.” 

“Heimdall. Can he-“

“With the Bifrost destroyed, it saddens me to tell you that the powers of Heimdall are severely limited. It is only through the grace of my father, Odin, that I may travel to and from Midgard.”

Tony nods; stepping clear as Thor swings his hammer and then takes off. He watches until the god is indistinguishable from the dark sky. Fury commands their attention.

“Sweep the building for any survivors. We’ll regroup on the helicarrier-“

“Sir, the helicarrier is not fully repaired-“

“Yeah, it may not be pretty but it’s functional, and it’s where we’re going.” Fury cuts Hill off. “It’s already been re-tasked this way. Should be here within the hour. Secure Barnes and then attend to your injuries.” Fury hobbles toward the door, dragging his leg behind him and gritting his teeth through the pain. 

Neither Clint nor Natasha move to help him; Tony assumes they both know better. Hill scavenges up a working radio from the wreckage and starts asking after survivors. She gets no response.

Barnes is stirring, sitting up and clutching his head. Tony stalks over to him, stands over him menacingly.

“Anything happens to Steve, I’m going to end you.” He means it. More than he’s ever meant anything. 

Barnes doesn’t ask what’s happened, which only confirms he must’ve known already. 

“It’s not what you think –” he starts, looking to Natasha pleadingly. Her returning glare is cold and unforgiving. Tony whirls away from Steve’s former friend, because if he stays he’s going to do something rash and he knows they need him, knows Barnes has to be alive if they’re to have any hope of finding Steve at all. “Let me explain –”

Natasha silences him with a vicious right hook to the face, sending him directly back into unconsciousness. Clint helps her heft up his prone form between them. 

“Banner’s on seventeen. Can you get him back to the tower safely?” Clint doesn’t wait for Tony to acquiesce before he and Natasha drag Barnes towards the door. Natasha pauses a moment as they pass. 

“We’ll get him back, Tony.” She says, and he almost tells her not to make promises that can’t be kept, but she knows the hard truths better than anybody. She catches his gaze, staring into the bright lights of his faceplate as squarely as she would his real eyes. “We’ll get him back.” 

He knows it’s dangerous to believe her, but he has to in order to go on.

*******

“They have Betty.” Bruce is usually anxious and worried, but the look on his face is beyond that now. He’s holding his cell phone like he’s forgotten he even has it, the just ended call still up on its screen.

“Who the hell is Betty?”

“Betty Ross. She was my…she worked with me on the experiments that lead up to…” Tony wishes Bruce would spit it out; he’s tired of the man dancing around his own condition.

“To the Hulk, Bruce. She turned you into the Hulk. Just _say it_.” Tony supplies, turning back to the array of screens he has up on the Holo. 

“I let out the Other Guy all on my own, _none_ of that was her fault; she was an innocent bystander. But that doesn’t change the fact that she knows all the research, all the data, backward and forward. She’s one of the few people outside SHIELD who has any fundamental understanding of how, theoretically, the super serum is supposed to work, and how gamma radiation functions.”

“Except it doesn’t work. It worked once, on Steve, and that’s it.” Tony doesn’t even know what he’s doing really – he’s mapping everything he’s culled on the Red Room, the screen dotted with pins marking former bases, safe houses, past incidents and most recent sightings of General Lukin. It’s all a moot point if these aren’t the guys that grabbed Steve. Even if they _are_ the culprits, it’s not much to go on. 

He narrows his eyes at the information in front of him, the images and words starting to get blurry. He needs to find eye drops. He opens desk drawer after desk drawer, seeming to remember having some at some point. He needs the eye drops, then he needs coffee, and then he needs to go back to SHIELD and slam Bucky’s head against the wall until the man gives him something he can _use_.

Probably why Fury won’t let him within ten feet of Barnes. So just coffee and eye drops for now. He runs his hands through his hair and then down over his face, trying to get a grip on his thoughts. His mind is getting muddy and it’s not usually like this, when he has a mission, has a purpose, usually it’s all so _clear_. 

Bruce is still saying something, his voice growing loud enough that it demands his attention.

“– when she didn’t turn up for work today, they sent someone to check her house.”

“Wait…what are you talking about?” Tony doesn’t even remember what Bruce had been saying. Something about some girl, and he knows he should care, but he can’t focus. He can’t _listen_ , not when –

“Tony, fuck, come on - I’m saying it’s bad enough that _General Ross_ called _me_ looking for help. _They. Have. Betty_.” Bruce slows down his words, spitting them out sharply in an attempt to get through to him. “Obviously whoever has _Steve_ , has _her_. No way these two things aren’t related.” Bruce gets between Tony and the holographic map of Asia, reaching out a hand and angrily sweeping all of Tony’s work aside. “Listen to me. She’s not like me. Or you. She’s just a scientist.”

“Anyone who works on the serum isn’t ‘just a scientist’, Banner. You pick up that buck, you’re not going to be passing it on.” 

“Tony…they have her, and I have a feeling they’re not going to let her go until she has done a complete vivisection on Steve. They want a functioning serum, Tony.” Bruce is talking to him like Tony’s trying his patience, like he’s mustering every last ounce of control to explain the situation. 

Tony’s well aware of the situation. 

“If that’s what they’re after, they’re wasting their time. The serum can’t be replicated.”

“They’re going to kill Steve in trying. And then they’re going to kill her.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?” Tony’s suddenly yelling, slamming his fist down on the top of the desk. The glass cracks, spidering out violently. Tony’s first instinct is usually survival but right now, it’s not. Getting into a shouting match with Bruce Banner is a terrible idea on about a thousand different levels but at the moment he couldn’t care less about Bruce’s big green problem. 

“Seriously! What the hell can I do? I’ve been sitting here running data and comparing timelines and using this incomplete bullshit rundown on the Red Room’s activities to try and figure out _where in the entire god damn world_ they could have Steve right now, and I have gotten nowhere! The only thing I’ve managed to learn so far is that I thought Kazakhstan was spelled with an ‘I’ in the middle and it’s actually an ‘A’! How _that’s_ gonna help me save Captain America, god only knows, but it’ll sure help if I ever decide to take remedial geography at BMCC!” 

Bruce actually looks startled, taken aback enough that his own anger fades in comparison to Tony’s. He takes a deep breath, setting his lips into a firm line. 

“Tony-“

“Don’t.” Tony grits out, flexing his fingers in front of him, staring down at the ground. His knuckles are bloody from where his fist shattered the desk. He feels the split skin sting, vaguely, like he’s two steps removed from himself.

“We all have something at stake here,” Bruce says quietly, the warning implicit. Tony knows it’s unfair but he can’t believe Bruce is putting some woman none of the other Avengers even know ahead of _Steve_. Ahead of Captain America. 

He also knows that Steve wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d want Bruce’s gal to come first. Part of him thinks he should honor Steve by seeing things that way too, but he’s too selfish to really see that through. He’d sacrifice anything, even himself, if it meant Steve’s safe return. 

One look at Bruce though, and Tony can see the man’s willing to do the same for this Betty, whoever she is. 

“You know, up until five minutes ago, Bruce, I didn’t even know you _had_ a Betty.”

“Up until just now, Tony, I didn’t know how much you cared for Cap,” Bruce counters, putting both his hands on the back of the desk chair, fingers gripping tightly, digging in. “We seem to forget that we don’t actually know each other all that well.” 

“Yeah. I guess we don’t.” Tony mumbles, closing his eyes. He tries to calm himself, running through what he remembers of the file he received on Bruce before this whole Avengers mess began. “Betty…she was in your file. College girlfriend or something like that.” 

He turns to Bruce for confirmation; he’s finally able to see the other man clearly now that his vision isn’t swimming. 

“Yeah...something like that,” Bruce replies, his smile wistful and sad. The door to the lab slides open with a burst of air and Pepper walks in, a bag from a nearby deli in her hand. She looks between the two men, registering the slowly ebbing tension between them, and then sets the bag down next to the untouched breakfast she’d given Tony that morning. 

Tony knows what she must see – the same wrinkled clothes, the unshaven face, the bloodshot eyes. He’s a disaster, and her concern is written plainly all over her face. 

“I’ve been worse.” Tony states, thinking of the days of binge drinking and weekend long bacchanals, the depths of the palladium debacle, the one thousand and one times he’d pulled all-nighters on his latest and greatest idea. But Pepper shakes her head. 

“No you haven’t.” She says, picking up the now ice cold plate of eggs and bacon he’d ignored. Pepper turns to Bruce. “I heard about Dr. Ross. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you, Pepper.” Bruce bites the edge of his thumb as his gaze ticks from Pepper to Tony and back and forth again. He seems to be waiting for Pepper to do something more than stand there and watch Tony pace. 

“I’m going to see Fury,” he announces, scooping up all his work from each screen and depositing it all into a file folder to take to the SHIELD helicarrier. He runs a quick encryption on it and puts it on a portable drive. He could certainly access it directly from SHIELD but he doesn’t want any avenues open to his network, doesn’t want any SHIELD agent poking their nose into his business. He doesn’t doubt his paranoia is warranted. Stupid assholes, letting Barnes come in like that, how could they not have _known_ -

Bruce is following him, jogging in order to keep up. He doesn’t know if Pepper is following suit, but if she is, she’s coming in her own time. 

“He’s not going to let you within arm’s reach of Sergeant Barnes, you have to know that.” Pepper is evidently closer behind him than he thought. “Last time-“

“Last time, I didn’t have the Hulk as back up.” Tony points out, jabbing the up button on the elevator repeatedly. “You think Fury will refuse me again if Banner’s glaring at him over my shoulder, turning green?”

“Bruce, you can’t be okay with Tony using you as a threat.” Pepper steps in between him and Bruce as the two of them reach the elevator, keeping Bruce from joining Tony. 

“We’ll do what we have to do.” Bruce gently moves Pepper aside and walks into the elevator beside Tony as it opens. Pepper looks at him plaintively, her wide eyes begging him to stop and think this through. 

“I have to, Pep. I’ll do anything and try anything to get him back." Tony knows how it sounds, how _he_ sounds; he’s too strung out to care. 

“You’ll never stop looking.” Pepper states, her voice strangely heavy, and then waits, looking at him like he’s supposed to say something. What can he say? 

“Damn straight I won’t stop,” he agrees, the adrenalin running through his body leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He heads to the roof, and after that it’s all a blur. Practically, he knows at some point he suits up and flies with Bruce to the helicarrier, but the next thing he’s actually aware of is his bloody hand fisting in the lapel of Fury’s black coat as he slams the man into the wall, demanding to see Barnes. 

“He’s not going to be able to help you.” Fury explains crisply, more frustrated than angry. 

“You mean _won’t_ ,” Tony spits, shoving Fury hard one last time and then letting go. He paces to the other end of the room. Fury straightens his clothes and looks at Bruce as if he expects Bruce to be more receptive of whatever spiel he’s about to spin off. 

“No. I mean _can’t_. The man’s fighting some kind of mental programming that we’ve only begun to understand.”

“So you’re saying, what, what – that he was brainwashed into coming here and drawing Steve out and now he can’t talk about it? That’s fucking ridiculous.” Tony clenches and unclenches his fists. He doesn’t know how Bruce is standing still. Isn’t Bruce supposed to be anger incarnate? How is Bruce keeping his head when Tony can barely see through his rage? He has to come up with a plan. He’s usually so good at this, at keeping cool and seeing things exactly for what they are, at being two steps ahead. Why can’t he think of a goddamned plan?

“Director Fury – this all isn’t making any sense to me,” Bruce shakes his head, puzzled, evidently too caught up in sorting through the logic to start a rampage. “If Barnes’ mission were to grab Steve, why did they send him into SHIELD headquarters, which would make such a mission ten times more difficult? It’d surely be easier to let Barnes be spotted somewhere, _anywhere_ else, and have Steve seek him out, right? And even if they _did_ send him in here, why would he make _not_ seeing Steve a condition of his cooperation? It’s completely illogical.”

“Actually, Dr. Banner, we think Sergeant Barnes _was_ sent here to New York with every intention of making Steve come to him. Our working theory is that on some level, Barnes knew what he’d been sent here to do, and resisted his programming. Turned himself in to protect the Cap.”

Tony stops moving, Fury finally saying something worthwhile. Fury notices he has Tony’s complete attention and directs further explanation to him. 

“We believe he refused to see Captain Rogers because he was afraid of what he might do if he did. James Buchanan Barnes is at war with the Winter Soldier, Stark. And we’ve been trying to get what we can from him, but let’s just say that…he’s having a hard time getting himself to cooperate.” Fury cocks an eyebrow at him, like he’s daring Tony to find a way around _that_. 

“Just put me in a room with him.” 

“I can’t do that, Stark.”

“Fuck you can’t. You can do whatever you want.” Tony snaps. “Put me in a room with him.”

“You don’t seem to understand how dangerous this man is. He could turn on any of us in the blink of an eye and we’d be helpless to stop him. We’re talking about a master assassin not in control of his mental faculties.”

“And I’m talking about Steve Rogers, out there, somewhere, completely at the mercy of a band of lunatics who want to break him apart just to see how he works.”

“Stark, if you think I’m not aware of the gravity of the situation-“

“I want to talk to him.” Someone interrupts, a voice that Tony doesn’t know. But Fury draws his gun instantly, training it on the man now standing behind Tony. 

“Hill, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Fury grabs his radio from his belt and calls for backup, keeping his gun and his good eye trained on Maria Hill and the handcuffed prisoner she has by her side. 

Tony stares at the man responsible for this mess. James Barnes. Bucky. Steve’s Bucky. 

He looks different in person. Smaller. 

“You’re Tony Stark.” Barnes says, not really a question. There’s a glimmer of recognition there, along with so much sadness that it’s actually quite staggering. It cuts sharply through Tony’s own anger and grief. “I wish you would’ve kept him away just awhile longer.”

“I wish I had too.” Tony replies, caught off guard by the surprising ache that fills his chest. Barnes sounds as destroyed as he feels. “But have you ever tried keeping that guy away from a fight?” 

There’s a hint of a smile, barely breaking on Barnes’ face. 

“I want to talk to him,” Barnes directs this request to Fury, gesturing toward Tony with both hands, zip-tied at the wrists. Hill keeps a firm grip at his elbow. 

“Not gonna happen.”

“It’s already happening, Fury. So talk.” Tony’s advancing on Barnes, and he feels Bruce’s hands grasping for his shoulder, trying to get him to stop, but it’s no matter. He’s not going to attack Barnes. He only wants to hear it, whatever this man has to say. “Where did they take Steve?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bull shit you don’t know. You don’t know, why’d you want to talk?” There are other agents piling into the hallway now, coming into the room from the other entrance, their guns up and ready. 

“I don’t…It’s there. Somewhere. But I can’t get at it.” Barnes closes his eyes for a brief moment, struggling even then to try and grasp something just out of reach. He opens his eyes to blink away tears. “I can’t remember.”

“Maybe we should hit you in the head really hard. Worked on Barton during his mind robbery and I have to say, it’d feel pretty good to boot.” Tony’s impatience is ratcheting up again, making his skin itch and his heart race like so much yellow wallpaper. 

“Agent Romanoff tried that first off,” Hill explains tersely, readjusting her grip on Barnes’ good arm as the man shifts. 

“I think she just wanted to hit me again.” Barnes murmurs. He sounds a little like Steve, that sometimes-accent of his curling faintly around the edges of Barnes’ words. Tony doesn’t like it, doesn’t like hearing Steve in this stranger’s voice. 

“Who can blame her,” Tony mutters back. He studies Barnes’ face, trying to discern something, anything at all. His eyes are icy blue, slightly vacant and crazed like he’s staring at a ghost no one else can see. He’s as pale as a man who hasn’t seen the sun for years. 

“It’s…it’s all so blurry, coming here. I only knew that I couldn’t see Steve. I could feel it…in my bones, you know, that I had to…I had to keep myself away from him. Any time I tried to dig deeper there was nothing – just darkness – a blank. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know this is what was going to happen.” Barnes stares back at him, direct but unchallenging. Tony nods. 

“Doesn’t change the fact that it did.”

“I wanted to…I wanted to say that if you come up with any way, any way to deprogram me, or unlock my real memories, or _anything_ to find out where they took him, I will do it,” He takes a step toward Tony, desperate and pleading. Hill yanks him back, pins him hard against the door with one hand. She lets him keep talking though. “I don’t care about what happens to me. I don’t care if I wind up a blubbering fool in an insane asylum, or if they have to lock me up forever. I will die for him. I will. Just figure something out.” 

Tony has no doubt at all that Barnes means it. The rest of the room remains silent as Tony’s gaze sweeps over the other man’s face, the tick of his jaw tightening as he steps back, leans against the opposite side of the doorway. He’s thinking now of what Steve told him about Bucky turning his back on him for the very first time. 

That’s when he realizes that Bucky’s for real. The man is trying to tell the truth. 

“You knew, didn’t you. What turning yourself in but refusing to see Steve would do. You knew him better than anyone. Knew how he would react. You wanted him as far away from this city as possible.”

Barnes swallows, nods his head slowly. 

“It wasn’t a deliberate plan, it’s just what I did.”

It kind of takes Tony’s breath away. Seventy years gone by. Years of mental contamination, of having his identity toyed with; unable to trust his own thoughts and memories and James Buchanan Barnes still understood Steve like it was second nature. Like their friendship was something intrinsic and absolute, unaffected and unchangeable by even the most severe circumstances. 

Barnes knew turning Steve away would break Steve’s resolve in a way that nothing else ever could. 

The hatred that wells up within him is real and raw and different from anything he’s felt toward the man before. 

Tony will get Steve back, because he won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t, but whatever they were building toward, _before_ , it doesn’t matter now. It’s all gone. He can’t compete with this. 

“I’ll let Fury know as soon as I work something up.” Tony promises softly, the words choking in his throat. 

The conversation appears to be over because Hill roughly passes Barnes off to a pair of other agents and he’s whisked off in the blink of an eye. Fury approaches Hill, his finger out warningly.

“We’ll discuss this later.”

“We can discuss it now,” Hill replies, unperturbed. 

“Good, cause I’d like to know what the hell in god’s name you think you’re doing-“

“It’s Captain America, sir.” Tony looks up at her, surprised by her words. She never seemed all that invested in any of them. “It’s Captain America, and it’s what Coulson would have done.”

Fury stares at her, his mouth settling into a firm line. Hill squares her shoulders, unapologetic and even a bit accusatory. 

“That was nothing compared to the trading cards, sir.” She doesn’t wait to be dismissed before walking away. Fury doesn’t try to stop him and Bruce from leaving either. 

“Steve will never forgive you if you hurt Barnes in order to bring him back.” Bruce shouts over the roar of the engines and the wind as they step out onto the helicarrier deck. Tony activates his wristlets, calling his armor to him, and waits until it’s all locked into place before he responds. 

“If it means we get him back, I’ll live with that.” He watches Bruce for a sign of disagreement, a bit of moral protest, but it’s not forthcoming. It appears Bruce is okay with sacrificing Barnes in order to save Betty as long as Tony’s willing to do the same to save Steve. 

They go straight back to work as soon as they reach the tower. Pepper is waiting for them in the lab. She already has a new file from SHIELD up on the holo.

“It’s all the information regarding Natasha’s extraction from the Red Room. I don’t know how much use it will actually be seeing as how the cases are quite different and years apart, but an agent sent it over anyway.”

She doesn’t say anything more. For the first time in days, Tony sees something beyond Steve’s abduction and realizes that that moment he feared, the moment where he would break Pepper’s heart, might have already happened and he hadn’t been paying attention. 

“Pep…” He sags under the weight of it, too much for him to bear. She moves close enough to hug him, but she doesn’t do anything more than set a hand on his shoulder. Bruce excuses himself silently, clearly aware that Pepper needs Tony alone.

“I won’t leave you like this, Tony. Not now. I’m here until we bring Steve home, safe and sound.” Pepper rubs the side of his arm gently. A single tear slips down her cheek, a mere prelude to more. “But when he’s back…I’m going to need some time away.”

“Pepper –”

“No, Tony. I can see it all over you. Everyone can. I’m okay with twelve percent of a building; I can’t make do with twelve percent of your heart.”

“Pepper, I didn’t want to –”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with him.” 

“Tony…” Pepper sighs, as if there’s something he still doesn’t understand. “You didn’t fall in love with him.”

“I…”

“I think maybe you’ve _always_ been in love with him.” She smiles at him, even through her tears. “And I think maybe I always knew that.” 

Pepper leans forward and kisses his cheek. He grabs her arm, trying to keep her just a moment longer, and breathes in her familiar, comforting scent. She deserves so much more than him but he still has a hard time letting go. 

Always the stronger one, she pulls away, disentangling herself from his hold. 

“Go back to work,” Pepper near whispers, then spins on her heel and pushes the button to open the lab door. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

“I’ll always need you,” Tony replies truthfully. 

“Not the way I need you to.” She disappears out the door, not looking back. 

He’s not aware of anything else but that empty doorway until Bruce sets a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?”

Tony shrugs off his touch, turns to the holo and opens up the video of the first interrogation of Natasha after Barton brought her in. 

“No. No one’s okay.”


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing that he becomes aware of as he stirs slowly is the cold. He’s freezing, and he can’t move. 

Steve tries to force his eyes open but it’s like his lids are stuck together. He tries to breathe but there’s something stopping him, covering his nose and his mouth, there’s something down his throat and even through his stupor the panic starts to build. Why can’t he move? 

He manages to pry open his eyes, mostly because of the tears welling and spilling out, but everything’s blurry and bright, his vision obscured. There’s something shining directly into his face. 

There’s a sound, soft and unintelligible, and then everything drifts away. He clings desperately to consciousness, struggling to just _stay awake_ , but it makes no difference. The panic fades because he’s hopeless to stop it and then comes darkness. 

The next time he’s jolted from sleep, a howling pain is surging through every inch of his body. His muscles are wrenched tight and it feels like his skin is on fire. He lifts his head and there’s blood, blood everywhere. His blood? He thinks it is. The coppery smell invades his nose, overpowering. He can’t make sense of anything. There’s someone else in the room. Many someones. Strong, rough hands are on his shoulders to force him back down. 

Beyond the blinding light he can see movement. Someone is shouting in Russian. There’s a wild beeping, shrill and insistent. A face, half covered in a white mask, hair tucked up underneath blue paper…wide blue worried eyes looking at him from behind plastic glasses. It’s a woman, he thinks, vaguely. He’s not sure why he thinks that. 

_It’s okay, Captain. Just try and hold on_. is what she says. Or what he thinks she says. He can’t see her mouth and she speaks so softly. 

There’s a sharp jab in his arm and he turns to fight the person off, but it’s no use. There’s nothing after that.

Not until the next flare of awareness, dawning on him even more slowly than the first time. It comes in ebbs and flows, except not that gentle. It’s like he’s drowning, occasionally managing to surface to gasp for air. It seems to last for hours. 

He’s cold again; when he breathes it smells of ice. Crisp and harsh. It makes his lungs hurt. Eventually he hears something over the beating of his own heart. 

_Steve, I need…listen to…now_. It’s the woman again, he thinks. Maybe it’s not the same one. He doesn’t know. _You’ve…sedation…nearly…nine days... No, no, stop…me. You…wake up. Open…eyes. Your eyes, Steve_.

They’re words. He knows that they’re supposed to be words. Sentences. It’s just that they’re not really making any sense. 

He can make out her shape against the backlight. She’s leaning over him. He occasionally feels sharp tugs on his skin, like his veins are being pulled out. She’s fumbling with something at his face and the feel of plastic resting against his cheeks goes away, the strange sensation in his nose disappearing. 

His skin stings as she slaps him; the woman’s hand hits his face repeatedly, short blasts of contact that are more like taps than blows. Whoever she is, she huffs in frustration, and then he can’t see her anymore. Pressure loosens around his wrists. Then around his waist, then his feet. 

He had been restrained. He’d thought maybe he was frozen again. He’d figured that was why he couldn’t move. He still can’t really move now – limbs are heavy, he can’t get anything to cooperate. 

“Captain Rogers…don’t have much time.” The message is coming in clearer now. The woman, whoever she is, is trying to sit him up. She has surprising force for someone so slender. Maybe she’s not that delicate. Maybe he’s hallucinating this whole thing. 

“What’s going on?” Steve’s not sure his words actually come out the way he means them. Or if they come out at all. It sounds more like an unintelligible croak. “Who are you?” As he comes back into himself, he starts to remember what was happening when he was grabbed. _Tony_. He was at SHIELD with Tony. “Tony…Is Tony okay?”

“Please stop trying to talk, Captain, it’ll do more harm than good. I need you to listen to me – we don’t have much time and I know you can’t walk. I need you to help me get you into this chair. Right now.” She pushes her shoulder underneath his arm and heaves upward, wrapping her arm around his midsection. It hurts like hell. 

The pain helps him shake off some of the fogginess. And whenever he moves, there’s more pain, so he keeps moving, each stab of discomfort clearing his brain of debris, bringing reality into sharper focus. By the time he manages to maneuver into the wheelchair, his body hitting with a dense thud, he almost tells her he doesn’t want or need to sit.

He barely gets a glance at the space he was being kept in – a small medical bay, lined with empty singular setups of beds and machines. All the cots are empty; the one he just vacated is the only one that shows signs of use. 

As she wheels him down the hallway, he catches a glimpse of an observation room; its windows overlook the medical bay. The small space is littered with bodies. Men in dark uniforms. There isn’t any blood. 

“They’re not dead.” The woman says, stopping in front of a closed, solid sliding door and hitting numbers quickly on the access pad. “They’re only unconscious. It won’t last for long. That’s why we have to move.” 

“I…thought you were one of them.” Steve says, even though he’s not entirely sure what he’d thought, if he’d thought anything. She doesn’t seem to understand him anyway. She pushes through the doorway as soon as it opens and the scene before him seems eerily familiar.

It’s not the same place. It’s not the hangar of HYDRA’s base in the Alps. The dimensions are different, the light is changed, and the details are off. But it’s so close to the past that when he catches a flash of the woman’s dark brown hair out of the corner of his eye, for a second he thinks she’s Peggy. 

“Who are you?” Steve finally gets the words out articulately, and this time she hears him. 

“Dr. Betty Ross.” 

That doesn’t really clear anything up. He gets a good look at her as they come to a stop beside one of the three helicopters; the hangar is empty of personnel but she keeps looking over her shoulder, expecting that to change at any moment. She’s tall, with long dark hair, a soft jaw line, full lips and eyebrows; there’s a fierce elegance to her that overrides the panic in her blue eyes.

The doctor leaves him for a moment, going to the second ‘copter and efficiently pulling wires loose from the control panels. She disappears from his view and he can only assume she’s doing the same thing to the third. 

“That should slow them down,” she states as she hurries back to his side. 

“What’s the plan here, Dr. Ross?” Steve asks, attempting to stand and not quite getting his feet under him. He sure hasn’t missed feeling like this, weak and useless, unable to defend himself. She opens the door and grips him by the arm again, the tightness of her hold betraying her anxiety and impatience. 

“Can you get in? I really don’t think I can lift you.” 

Steve musters up everything he’s got and climbs into the helicopter. His body protests, muscles screaming. His teeth cut into his bottom lip as he holds back a pained grunt. 

Dr. Ross clambers in after him, shaking her head once as she slams the door.

“Bruce said you were tough as nails. I think even that’s an underestimation.” 

“Bruce? You know Dr. Banner?” Steve’s head is swimming and he draws in as deep a breath as he can. He focuses on her long enough to see her running her hands over the controls of the helicopter, mouthing something to herself. “Dr. Ross? Do you know how to do this?”

“I grew up military. I have a license. My father made sure of that.” She states, grabbing the headset and putting it on. 

“Dr. Ross…”

“Ok, it’s been a while but we don’t have much choice. You’re hardly in a state to pilot a helicopter, Captain.” 

He considers protesting but she starts the engine. The blades whir to life but they don’t drown out the new addition of ricocheting gunfire. Dr. Ross swears under her breath and starts flicking switches and checking controls with a more assured competency. Grace under fire, he thinks as he feels the helicopter shift as it rises, that moment when something goes from dead weight to airborne. 

They lurch from the hangar, wavering slightly, but Dr. Ross wrangles better control as soon as they’re clear. Steve tries to think what he should ask her but he has too many thoughts and each time he tries to grab hold of one, it slips through his fingers. 

“Tony.” Steve mumbles. He’s the only thing Steve can really see through the muddle. He needs Tony. Maybe he says it aloud. He’s not sure. The doctor glances at him. 

“Captain?” She asks, and he’s alarmed by how alarmed she sounds. All of a sudden his stomach is in his throat and he’s heaving all over the floor between his feet, nothing but water and bile. “Steve?” 

He must pass out, because he doesn’t remember anything after that.

*******

Someone is holding his hand.

It’s a steady, comforting pressure against his palm, tight around his fingers. Sometimes the grip loosens or shifts, but it never ceases. 

He wants nothing more than to open his eyes and see Tony there. It has to be Tony, because even though he has no idea where he is, he feels safe. 

The last thing he recalls is being rescued. Maybe. Right? A woman had got him, somehow, into a helicopter. He doesn’t remember why she was trying to save him, or who she was. But this place he’s in now, it doesn’t feel like before. Nothing is prickling underneath his skin and leaving him unsettled. 

It’s like there’s cotton in his ears, but he can still hear someone speaking to him quietly. Snatches of things get through. Coney Island gets through. That’s when he realizes it can’t be Tony, because he and Tony have never been to Coney Island. Only he and Bucky…

But Bucky’s dead. 

No.

Bucky’s alive. That’s why…yeah, that’s why he and Tony came back to New York. Because Bucky was in danger. You have to be alive to be in danger. That’s only logical, right? It’s through sheer force of will that Steve manages to open his eyes and look at the man at his bedside. 

It doesn’t matter that his mind is hazy; he’d recognize James Buchanan Barnes anywhere. 

“Buck?” His throat is scratchy dry and for a moment he thinks he wasn’t heard. But then the man lifts his dark head, that familiar lock of hair falling loose across his forehead. Bucky’s thick hair always did do crazy things if he didn’t keep on top of it. 

Bucky looks at him, wide blue eyes bloodshot and wild, and then his grasp tightens around Steve’s hand. Bucky’s hold feels strange, his fingers seemingly real yet not quite right. 

“Steve?” Bucky leans forward, reaching out with his other hand to touch Steve’s face. The move is aborted by the clang of the handcuffs that tether his wrist to the bed. Steve narrows his eyes at the shiny metal, confused. “He’s awake! Steve, can you hear me? Hey, he’s awake - get the doctor!” 

Steve belatedly notices there are two guards inside the room, posted on either side of the closed door. He doesn’t know them but he can tell they’re SHIELD down to their very cores. They stare at Bucky and make no move to alert anyone of anything. 

“Look, you better go get someone.” Bucky warns, and jangles the handcuffs loudly. “What can I possibly do like _this_ that _one_ of you schmucks can’t handle?”

“Buck…Bucky, it’s okay…” Steve squeezes Bucky’s hand, tries to reach for him, wanting nothing more than to get his friend’s attention. Tubes and cords tether him to machines though, and he can’t move how he wants to. One of the men unfolds his hands and opens the door, and with a put upon frown exchanges a long look with his counterpart before exiting the room. The other man readjusts his stance and refolds his hands, fixing his gaze firmly on Bucky.

Steve feels sleep tugging him back under, pulling at him with insistent fingers. He doesn’t want to go. Bucky chooses that moment to turn back, satisfied that the agent has gone to get him medical attention, and it’s enough to keep him awake.

“Steve.” Bucky breathes his name like a prayer; Steve can hear the relief and gratitude there and he’s grateful for it himself. He’s not all that sure what happened, but he’s glad to be back and even more glad that Bucky’s here, solid and real and _looking at him_ , close enough to touch. “How do you feel? Do you need anything?” 

“Hey. You’re here.” Steve smiles and his face protests the movement. It’s painful but that doesn’t mean he stops. 

“I’m here.” Bucky shifts his seat closer and tightens his grip on Steve’s hand to the point where it almost hurts. He bends his head, presses his lips to Steve’s cracked knuckles, and then presses his other hand over their combined grasp. “I’m so sorry, Steve. I can’t even tell you, I don’t know how…”

“Don’t be sorry…” Steve trails off because he realizes Bucky is crying, tears streaming down his face. That’s all it takes for everything within him to crack wide open. All that he’s been trying to _withstand_ for so long hits him with its full force, and for the first time he doesn’t try to fight it, or handle it. He lets it all through. 

He just cries. 

He cries for everything he’s refused to cry for. Everything he denied and repressed because he had needed to be strong and he hadn’t a choice. He can stop pretending now, at least for this moment. 

He clings to Bucky and Bucky clings to him. Everything begins to fall away, some of that unbearable weight lifting from his shoulders. He hadn’t quite realized how much he’d been carrying until he finally acknowledges the burden, slowly starts putting it down.

There are things he wants to say but they can wait. 

He doesn’t know how long he and Bucky hold onto one another but it’s not near long enough. 

The door opens and Steve and Bucky draw the same breath, trying to get a hold of themselves before the doctor interrupts. Bucky rises up as much as he can, given his restraints, and kisses Steve on the forehead, ruffling his hair. He sits back down and smiles crookedly, wiping tears from his face. 

Steve looks past Bucky for a moment, expecting to find a doctor in a white coat approaching. Instead there’s Tony, frozen in the doorway with this strange, stricken expression on his face. Almost like Tony’s disappointed to find him awake and talking. 

“Tony?” His voice is even worse now, hoarse from disuse and wrecked from his crying. Bucky turns toward the doorway as well, taking the sight of Tony in. He looks wretched, unshaven and unkempt. Downright wan and gaunt. Steve wonders if he’s been drinking.

Steve’s heart still jumps at seeing him. 

“Stark, hey.” Bucky’s angled away from him, but he can see Bucky flash Tony a smile. His hand gets squeezed again as Bucky gestures back to him as if to say, _He’s awake, isn’t that great?_

“Heard a rumor you’d rejoined the land of the living.” Tony saunters to the foot of the hospital bed, his smile tight and forced. The other man’s shirts are layered thick enough that Steve can’t see the light of the arc reactor at all; Steve really doesn’t like that. “Good to see you, Cap.”

Steve only manages a nod and a weak smile, sensing something has drastically changed between them in the time he was gone. Tony is keeping his gaze carefully just off-center, not quite meeting his eyes. He wishes Tony would touch him, maybe take his hand the way Bucky has. If he’d just get _closer_. There are only a few feet between them but Tony seems miles away. He’d obviously rather be somewhere, anywhere else, his distance and distraction abundantly clear. 

Steve can’t think of what to say so he just stares back at Tony, like maybe if he looks long enough he’ll be able to discern why things are so different between them when he hasn’t been awake for _any_ of it. Was everything between them so fragile that his temporary and unwilling absence could destroy it? 

Tony doesn’t fill the void with effortless and endless chatter the way he usually does. His tanned, calloused hands – those hands that prove him a man of action and application in his world of theorists and thinkers – stay still as they grip the metal foot rail of the narrow hospital bed. Tony glances toward the hallway, biting the inside of his cheek. 

Bucky slowly looks from Tony to Steve, registering the tension that has exploded in the room, messy and sudden. He and Bucky always could read each other’s faces like statements, holding silent conversations through lifting eyebrows and small quirks of their mouths, and Bucky’s trying to decipher him now. He schools his face into the blankest expression he can muster. 

“How are you?” He asks Tony, all too aware of his voice cracking. His parched lips strain to form the words. His head is starting to pound and he considers asking Bucky for some water before remembering that the other man is cuffed to the collapsible handrail and won’t be going anywhere. 

“How am _I_?” Tony stares at him like he’s just asked after his vacation on Mars. Steve doesn’t see why the question is ludicrous but Tony’s smile is bitter and disbelieving. “You’re serious.”

Steve can’t really bear whatever’s happening with him and Tony right now so he lets their conversation drop. He notices there’s a half full glass of water on the stand beside the bed and reaches for it. It must be Bucky’s but they’ve never minded sharing. He can’t quite make his hand function correctly, his fingers clumsy, and he ends up knocking it over. 

“Sorry.” He feels his face heat and Bucky chuckles lightly, shaking his head.

“Could’ve just asked, knucklehead.” He rights the glass, eyeing the water dripping down onto the floor. “Not that much left in there anyway.”

Tony mutters something under his breath and disappears into the bathroom. He comes back a moment later, plastic glass clutched in one hand and a towel in the other. He stops beside Bucky and drops the towel to the tile to sop up the mess. He’s halfway toward bringing the glass to Steve’s lips before he aborts the movement and stutters back. 

“Here.” He gives the water to Bucky and moves clear from Steve and the bed. Bucky looks at Tony askance and then gives Steve a little shrug before helping him to drink. 

“You’re givin’ me flashbacks here, Rogers. Haven’t had to be your damn nursemaid in a real long time.” Bucky sets the cup aside. “Have to say, haven’t really missed seeing you in a sickbed. Thought I’d seen the last a’ this when you Capped up.”

“I don’t even know what happened.” 

Bucky sucks in a deep breath, a dark look crossing over his face. Tony turns even gloomier, which makes Steve sorry for even having brought it up. He should’ve waited for his doctor, whoever that might be, or maybe Bruce. 

“How much _do_ you remember?” Bucky asks.

“Arriving at SHIELD with Tony. Not much after that – just bits and pieces here and there. I think I remember a woman saving me.”

“Dr. Ross.” Tony provides flatly. “Betty. She’s Bruce’s special friend.”

“Is she here? I’d like to thank her.”

“She’s also the reason you’ve been –” Tony cuts himself off. Bucky sighs.

“The organization that has been controlling me all these years, they came after you.”

“And they used you to try and reverse engineer the serum,” Tony interjects again, apparently unable to stop. “They also used you as a guinea pig, testing and injecting you with god knows what, trying to figure out what you could withstand, what you could fight off. Torture in the goddamned name of science. They kidnapped Dr. Ross to help them do it, and she did _whatever they asked-_ “

“Until she figured out a way to get you out.” Bucky raises his voice a little sharply. “Which she did. And I think maybe you should rest for a while now, Steve. Stark, why don’t you go see what’s holding up the doctor. Just get Banner or Ross over here if SHIELD isn’t going to get their people’s asses moving.”

Surprisingly, Tony doesn’t snap anything back. He just leaves. 

“How long has he been like this?” Steve asks quietly after the door slams.

“I take it he’s not always this lovely?” Bucky smirks. “I don’t really know the man. And apart from the couple of scans and tests he’s run so far on this messed up mind of mine, I haven’t spent much time with him.”

“Oh.”

“Stark’s trying to figure out a way to fix me. If there even is a way. Fury’s been letting me come here nearly every day though; seems like I’m hardly twitchy at all ‘round you. I remember things better. Course I get lovely escorts to keep me in line.” Bucky runs a finger along the catch of the handcuffs. Steve can see where his wrist is red and irritated. He’s not wearing prisoner’s garb though – just the SSR t-shirt and beige trousers that Fury seems to think is standard issue for anyone who has been displaced in time. “He asked about you, you know. Stark. Didn’t really seem much like he wanted to, but he did anyway. Asked what you were like, back then.”

Bucky gives him a quick look like he’s not entirely sure he should be saying this or that Steve wants to hear it. 

“He didn’t say much else, wasn’t that big of a talker.” Steve has to snort at that comment, and Bucky smiles a little. “Take it that’s not the norm then.”

“Tony doesn’t exactly believe silence is golden.”

“Well. Guess I must be special.” Bucky tugs on the handcuffs with a frown, and then twists toward the door. One of the guards is still standing there, perfectly stoic. “Y’know, it’s kinda bullshit that they didn’t have someone in there about three seconds after you woke up. You’ve been down for a week, I’d think Captain America waking up would be a big deal.”

“I’m sure they have much more important things to worry about, Buck.” He glances at his own monitors, not really knowing what any of the lines and beeps and strange numbers mean, but sure that if anything was really wrong everything wouldn’t seem so steady. When he looks back to his friend, Steve finds him staring. “What is it?”

“You really haven’t changed at all, Rogers. Not one bit.” 

“Well…a good man once told me not to.” He shrugs. All their time together during the war, Bucky looked at him with amazement and disbelief, but not awe. It’s strange to see it on his face now. “You don’t seem all that different either, Barnes.”

“Caught me on a good day,” Bucky jokes, but he doesn’t smile. “I’m not who I am all the time, Steve. Might not be me tomorrow. Might not be me ever again.”

“You’re here now.” It’s as simple as he can put it. All that other stuff doesn’t matter. No matter what happens next, Bucky is still Bucky. They’ll strip the rest away like the garbage that it is; somehow give Bucky back his life. He doesn’t know how they’ll do it but he has faith they’ll figure out a way. “We’re both here.”

“Yeah. We are.” 

Bucky remains with him the rest of the evening, watching over him as the doctors run their tests and check his vitals. He only leaves when he’s no longer given the choice to stay. 

When Steve startles awake in the middle of the night, he expects to find himself alone. It’s not until his heartbeat has settled steady in his chest and his eyes have adjusted to the darkness that he makes out a shape across the room, slumped in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. 

He lets Tony sleep.

*******

As soon as he’s able, Steve goes back to Avengers Tower. It’s strange that he thinks of it as home now, even though the only night he’s ever spent there he spent sleeping on the living room couch. He hasn’t set foot in his Brooklyn apartment since he rode out of New York on his bike, and that was well over a month ago now.

He hopes someone remembered to cover his rent for him while he was gone; he hadn’t exactly planned on being abducted and held hostage as a science experiment. He suspects that if he followed the paper trail long enough, he’d find that the building is owned by SHIELD and his landlord is really Fury, so he decides he probably doesn’t need to worry about returning to find an eviction notice nailed to the door and his few belongings donated to the Salvation Army. 

Clint meets him at the elevator, taking over for the SHIELD agent who’d carted him to the Tower. Clint’s walking with a limp, a bandage on his left bicep peeking out from underneath his black t-shirt, but he doesn’t appear bothered by the injuries and he doesn’t offer an explanation as Steve eyes him with concern. 

“Hey, Cap.” Clint is fighting back a smile, struggling to keep it in check, but he loses the battle. Beaming, he claps a hand to Steve’s shoulder. “Damn, it’s good to see you, man.”

“Good to be back.” Steve mistakes Clint’s other offered hand for a shake, not a fist bump, which is a new thing he’s apparently got to get his head around. Clint gamely adjusts, chuckling as he clasps Steve’s hand firmly. Steve looks up at the high ceiling of the Tower’s foyer as Clint leads him forward. Here in the lobby it’s so much an office building, clinical and impersonal. It doesn’t seem like Tony at all. He watches the numbers above the elevator light their way down. 

“He knows you’re here.” Clint states, apropos of nothing, as the elevator doors smoothly open and he leads the way inside. He swipes a card, punches in a security code and grabs Steve’s hand, pressing his thumb to a small scanner. Then Clint hits the button for floor fifty-eight. “He’s in the lab with Banner and Dr. Ross. They’ve been working with some of the top neuroscientists to try and defrag your friend’s mind. That’s a hell of a thing.” 

Clint drifts into silence for a moment. Steve doesn’t know if the other man is conscious of the fact he’s rubbing his hand over his chest, but Loki must be on Clint’s mind.

“Yeah, it is.” Steve agrees softly. Maybe Clint and Bucky should talk. Besides Natasha, Clint’s probably the only one who could understand how his best friend feels these days. 

“It’s different though. I got hijacked, taken out for a joyride, and returned not much worse for wear…comparatively. I mean, I was under Loki’s control for less than a week – your pal’s been in and out of commission for what, like, sixty, seventy years? From what I’ve gathered, his whole engine got rewired and most of his parts got swapped or replaced. Kinda looks like the same car outside but inside…not so much.” 

Clint glances his direction; he must look as apprehensive and concerned as he feels, because Clint’s expression quickly turns apologetic. 

“Sorry. That’s probably not what you want to hear right now.” 

“No…I mean, it’s better I know what we’re up against.” 

The elevator settles to a stop.

“Home sweet home, Cap.” Clint announces as they step into a small foyer. There’s a large oak door directly across from the bank of elevators; a much smaller, polished steel version of his red, white and blue shield is affixed about eye level. There’s another keypad and print scanner on the wall to the right of the door. Clint punches in a code and gestures for him to press his thumb to the small black screen. “JARVIS can help you reset this to a personal pass code. Until then, I promise not to break in and steal your shit.” 

Clint winks and pushes the door open. 

Steve doesn’t know what he was expecting but when he steps inside, he’s a little surprised. The apartment is very straightforward and simple, and nearly empty. A small kitchenette to the right, the living room forward to the left. A short hallway leads down to what he supposes must be the bedroom. The ceilings are high, and the far living room wall is nothing but windows. It’s all done up in varying shades of brown and rich blue, the furniture solid and plain. The floors are all dark hardwood, polished to a shine. There are no decorations on the walls, no books on the bookshelves.

He has to admit that he figured Tony might go overboard on the whole thing, but instead the man’s left the place pretty much a blank slate.

“Tony wanted to bring everything from your place over, but Tasha told him not to jump the gun.” Clint leans against the kitchen counter, watching Steve take it all in. “But you should have everything you need to get by for now. Y’know, soap and underwear and all the boring day-to-day stuff. Pepper set you up before she left.” 

“Thanks.” Steve doesn’t really know what he should be doing now. What he really wants to do is go to the lab. Not because he’s eager to know where things stand with the Bucky issue – which he is – and not because he knows Dr. Ross is there and he owes her a great deal of gratitude – which he does. Out of all the reasons and excuses, the only one that’s one hundred percent true is that he wants to hear Tony’s voice. 

They haven’t spoken since the day he first woke up, over a week before. His visitors since then have been limited mainly to SHIELD personnel, an endless stream of specialists and psychologists and agents who wanted to draw out as much information from him as possible. Bucky was usually allowed to see him at least once a day, and every day he looked a little worse. 

_Tests_ , is all he’d said, with a sad shrug of acceptance. Since Steve hasn’t caught as much as a glimpse of Tony since that first night in his hospital room, Tony must be wholly wrapped up in whatever they’re devising to sort Bucky out. 

“Anyway. Banner’s floor is the one below yours. Stark’s got the top floors of the tower to himself. You know the main floor’s on fifty-three, gym’s on fifty-two, but there’s a chart in your kitchen as to what’s where if you need it. Also Pepper’s doing. Labs are forty-eight through fifty, his workshop’s fifty-one, but Stark’s got ‘em all on lockdown. No visitors.” 

Steve crosses his arms over his chest and manages a terse nod, feeling oddly wounded by Clint’s words. Rationally, he’s aware they’re not a pointed exclusion, but it feels like he’s been barred from everything that matters. 

“I’ll just sit here quietly then?” He sighs. Clint echoes him, reaching out and patting him on the shoulder.

“Try and take it easy, bro. You’ve been through a lot. Stark’s got everything under control for the time being.” Clint’s leaving; it takes his brain a moment to catch up with the movement. He’s at the door before Steve recognizes that the last thing he wants is to be alone right now. “You should get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Steve mumbles, letting Clint go. He probably has other things to do, and Steve wouldn’t know what to say anyway. 

“Call me on my cell if you need anything.” And there would’ve been the perfect opportunity to just spit it out – say _I need you to stay_ \- but it doesn’t happen. He stays silent and the door closes behind Clint. It locks automatically. 

Steve stands in the center of his living room for too long a time. He had been looking forward to this, but not _this_. Not this hollow space that’s not even his yet, not anyone’s. 

After a while he pries off his shoes and pads around the place, seeking out the bathroom. The tile is cold under his bare feet. He flips on all the lights and stares at his bruised reflection in the large mirror. He’s still pale, the skin underneath his eyes shadowed purple and sickly yellow. Lifting up his t-shirt, he gingerly touches the incisions and wounds left from the Red Room’s cruel experiments. His body has been slow to heal. 

With the amount of trauma he experienced, he should have died twice over. He prays he never remembers all that they did to him, because the very little he does remember is already taking firm hold in nightmares. 

Satisfied they had what they needed to engineer their own serum, their next forced assignment for Dr. Ross was to fashion an antidote of sorts, to make a final test of him by seeing if they could undo everything. Something as powerful as a super soldier needs a check in place; needs a kill switch. Steve has no doubts that if Dr. Ross hadn’t gotten him out when she did, they would have ended him and they would have made her be the one to do it.

He tugs down the waistband of his black sweats, fingers running along a rough line of stitches leading across his stomach from his hip toward his navel. 

“You look terrible.” 

Steve whips his head up so fast his neck wrenches. He catches a flash of Natasha’s red hair in the mirror before he turns fully around to face her. His heart pounds wildly in his chest and he has to wonder why in the world she thought it would be a good idea to sneak up on someone recovering from an abduction. 

He originally thought the bathroom needlessly large, but with Natasha blocking the doorway it seems too small. She must sense his unease because she backs up, allowing him enough space to pass her and leave if he wishes. 

“Natasha.” Her name is as far as he gets. He hasn’t had much time to sort through the mix of conflicting emotions that surround her. 

“How are you feeling?” She inquires, her voice even and her posture carefully neutral. 

“Not so wonderful.” Steve doesn’t bother lying. Natasha nods a little, her full lips tightening into a stern frown. Her hair’s a little longer, and there’s a new scar fading on her forehead. There’s a bandage wrapped around her wrist, partially obscured by the long sleeves of her black shirt. Time once again marched on without him. 

“You’re still angry with me.” It’s not a question, because Natasha doesn’t do that, doesn’t approach a situation unsure and fumble her way around. She has a point and she’ll make it. “I wouldn’t change what I did. I could’ve been mistaken. We might’ve been unable to bring him in. If you’d known, you might have had to hunt down and kill your own best friend. I didn’t want that for you.”

“I appreciate your position.” He does. In all honesty, if he were faced with a similar situation, he probably would’ve dealt with it in the same way. It doesn’t change the fact that Natasha knew all along that Bucky might be alive and who he had become, and she’d kept it to herself. “I’m not…”

He stops, because he doesn’t want to lie and he doesn’t know what the truth is. 

“I’m just so tired, Tasha.” 

To his surprise, Natasha swiftly moves in close and wraps her arms around him. He tenses, startled, lifting his arms off to his sides as she presses close. 

“I’m shit with hugs, Cap, give me something to work with here.” She mumbles against his chest and he has to smile a little, he has no choice. Tentatively, he lets his arms fall down around her. 

“Better?” He whispers, dropping his head down and resting his chin against the top of her head. Her hair smells like orchids; its color still reminds him of blood. 

“Yeah,” she responds, taking a deep breath of her own before gently pulling back. She reaches up and caresses the side of his face, her eyes searching his for something. He doesn’t know what. “Let’s keep this hug thing between us, okay? I’m not about to go doling these out to just anyone.” 

“Won’t say a word.” Steve promises. Natasha draws back, her fingers tracing the length of a bruise on his cheek. She presses just hard enough for him to feel it. 

“You really are a mess. I can only imagine what you looked like when Ross brought you in. I’m glad I wasn’t there to see it.” Disentangling herself from his embrace, she turns and walks back down the hall. Steve follows her slowly. At his slower pace, she’s already in the living room and opening up one of the oak cabinets by the time he catches up. 

The warmth of Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the space between them.

“I did let Stark bring over your radio.”

“But it didn’t work.”

“Works now.” How that happened is a mystery to neither of them. Natasha sits down on the couch and gestures to the cushion beside her, pulling a dark blue throw pillow out of the way.

They sit and listen as Sinatra fades into the Inkspots, minutes slipping by peacefully and without comment. 

“I should leave so you can sleep.” Natasha says after awhile and he realizes his eyes have been drifting closed. He also realizes that it’s more like Natasha to let him fall asleep and leave quietly on her own. She wouldn’t wake him up just to tell him to go back to sleep. 

She’s really asking if he wants her to stay. 

There’s not really enough room on the couch for both of them to lie down beside each other, but they make it work. As he wraps an arm around Natasha’s slender waist, he can’t suppress a light chuckle. This is not how he imagined his first time sleeping with a dame would be. 

“’Sleeping with someone’ means something different now, Cap,” Natasha says. He hadn’t meant to think aloud, but he supposes he must have. He fights his blush and goes with it because he can’t really pretend he didn’t say it.

“And you’re not a dame.”

“If you weren’t injured, I’d elbow you in the gut right now.” Natasha mumbles, keeping her eyes closed. A small smile curves her lips though, her amusement creeping through. 

“I only meant-“ 

“Go to sleep, Rogers,” she cuts him off, her body nestling closer to his. Such a short time ago he would’ve been hard pressed to believe he’d be holding a woman like Natasha in his arms, much less doing so and not feeling anything but comfortable, but that’s how it is. 

His thoughts wander toward Tony as he inches back toward sleep, Natasha’s breathing settling deep and even in time with his. 

“You should talk to him tomorrow, Cap.” Natasha murmurs drowsily, adjusting her head so it’s pillowed against his shoulder. He doesn’t ask her who she means, or how she knew. “He was really scared.”

He tilts back slightly, gaze inadvertently moving toward the ceiling. He wonders if Tony’s upstairs now, or if he’s still down in the lab. The ache he feels when he thinks of Tony isn’t physical.

“We were all really scared.” 

Somehow, Natasha’s admission still catches him off guard. Maybe she falls asleep, maybe she’s just done talking, but she doesn’t say anything more. This vulnerability she’s been offering him is her way of apologizing. Tomorrow it’ll all be different. 

He holds her close and lets sleep pull him under.


	7. Chapter 7

“Tony?”

His hold on the acetylene torch slips, leaving a wide swath of a scorch mark outside the knee joint of his new suit of armor. As he switches the flame off he swears under his breath even though he knows that the already-planned fresh coat of paint will easily cover his mistake. 

Tony takes his time setting the torch down, pretending it’s precaution, and then flips up the face mask before taking it off completely. He puts it aside and wipes his brow. 

Only after that does he finally face Steve. He’s still not ready for what he sees. 

Steve is standing in the doorway to the workshop, dressed in faded jeans and a grey Henley, hair immaculately combed. Despite the careful presentation he still looks like he went twenty rounds with Banner on a bad day. The sight of him makes Tony feel simultaneously nauseated and incredibly grateful. 

They had all come so close to losing him. So damn close. 

He wonders if that’s why Natasha spent the previous night holed up with Steve in his quarters. Tony shouldn’t know about it, but he does. Being curious and having an AI monitoring everything that happens under his roof is a dangerous combination. He’d doubled down on work all day long to avoid confronting Nat over it. If he saw her, he figured it’d be two seconds before he demanded to know why she was coming out of Steve’s room at six in the morning. He wasn’t sure he wanted an answer or an explanation anyway. 

“Cap.” Tony musters up a bright smile and a bit of manic energy, pushing away painful thoughts of Steve and Natasha in compromising positions. “You’re here!”

“Um…” Steve’s hand goes to the back of his neck and the action is so familiar that Tony hates himself a little for how much he loves it. “I’ve been back since yesterday. I thought you knew.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, I did. I think I did? Honestly, time’s been nothing but a blur this past…whatever it’s been.” He takes off his work gloves, tosses them aside. “You…you look better. In the grand scheme of things. I mean, you’re not winning Mr. Universe any time soon, but you’re upright and you’re talking, so I think we can go ahead and file it in the plus column.”

“What are you working on?” Steve asks after a beat, though it seemed like he really wanted to say something else. His brow furrows a little as he makes a vague, hopeless gesture toward Tony’s workbench. 

“Mark IX. The uh…well, while you were…uh, _gone_ …the old unit got a little…destroyed?” He makes a vague gesture of his own toward the twisted heap of scrap metal that the Mark VIII has now become. The various pieces are laid out on another table; there’s little he can salvage. “Yeah, I guess destroyed is the right word.”

“What happened?” It’s kind of cute how fast Steve grows alarmed, his eyes wide and the little color he has draining from his cheeks. One would never think the guy just got back from being held captive by madmen; his concern is already focused on everyone besides himself. Suddenly Steve is moving toward him, hands out like he’s personally going to check Tony’s body for injuries. “You weren’t…are you _okay?_ ”

“I’m fine, Steve,” Tony backs up, waving him off as casually as he can. “Don’t worry your pretty little head over it. After talking to Betty, Nat thought she had a lead on the bastards who took you - Thanks, Dummy.” He pauses in his explanation to take a towel that his robot is insistently nudging him with. He is pretty gross, sweaty and streaked with oil, so Dummy might have a point. “So we had a bit of a team field trip. It wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, you know how these things go. Most of them got away in the end, Lukin included." He wipes his hands and tosses the rag aside fitfully, angered at the thought of how many escaped the brutal punishment he'd wanted to exact. 

“Christ, Tony.” Steve taking the Lord’s name in vain is a first; he seems shaken, his eyes lingering over the remains of the Mark VIII. “You all could’ve been-“

“Everyone’s fine, Cap. You saw us all, right? Just some bumps and bruises. Stop looking like that.”

“But you shouldn’t have-“

“What? Gone after the assholes? Yeah. You must’ve knocked your head harder than we thought if you would even consider that we wouldn't,” he snaps. “I just thank god Betts got some goddamned gumption in the end and got you the fuck away from Lukin, that’s all I have to say. If he or any of his goons ever try this bullshit again…” Tony doesn’t finish his thought. Steve already looks perturbed, eyeing Tony like he’s worried about what he’s going to do next. Tony coughs, unclenching his fist and laying his palm flat against the table. “Anyway.”

“I tried to find Dr. Ross earlier.” Steve is choosing his words more carefully now. “I went to the main lab, but everything was dark.”

“Oh. Well. Bruce demanded we shut down for the night and do something besides work on our little mind re-arranger. So, they’re out somewhere, ‘taking the night off’. You know, he gets his girl back and suddenly loses his work ethic.” He rolls his eyes, preparing another tirade about how close they were to cracking the Barnes problem wide open, when he suddenly realizes that none of this blathering is keeping Steve at bay. “Hey – how did you get the codes to get in here anyway, I thought…JARVIS.” Steve shrugs. “Such betrayal.”

“He was acting in your own best interest. He said something about that being within his parameters.” Steve doesn’t look in the least bit ashamed of breaking Tony’s protocols and using his AI to do it. 

“Yeah. Well. We’ll have to reset those parameters then, won’t we.” He puts some space between Steve and himself, straightening up his workspace. It’s something he hasn’t done in months and some of this stuff he doesn’t even remember using. “Oh, that’s where it went. Totally forgot about that.” He comments as he finds a blueprint for a new car engine that he’d folded up and set aside over six months ago. It’d had some fundamental problems, but maybe it’s worth re-visiting. He unfolds it and tacks it to the nearest board. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I should never start anything on paper.”

“Tony. Can you…” Steve stares at him, holding up both his hands like he wants to grab hold of something but isn’t sure what. “Can you just stay still for a second?”

“Theoretically, yes, it is possible.” Tony retorts, not stuttering in his movements even the slightest. “Hey, do you like your digs? Pepper refused to let me have any fun, something about me inflicting my personality on others, yada yada, so I apologize if it’s boring as hell. But you’re artistic, right? Right. You can do something with it – hopefully something more than your hovel in Brooklyn though, cause that place was _crap_. I-“

“ _Tony!_ ” Steve nearly shouts. It’s enough to finally stop Tony in his tracks, if only because he’s genuinely taken aback. That wasn’t a Captain command. That was Steve yelling, and he’s never actually heard _Steve_ yell before. 

He stays quiet, watching as Steve brings a trembling hand to his face, fingers rubbing at his temples. 

Tony digs his own hands into the back of his work chair to keep himself from going to Steve’s side. 

“You okay, Cap?” 

“I…I’m fine.” Steve doesn’t sound fine. He doesn’t sound fine at all.

 _Fuck it_ , Tony thinks, and pushes the chair aside, closing the gap between them. He takes hold of Steve’s arms. He’s so warm to the touch, solid and sturdy – here, not dead, not asleep, but here, and _safe_. If only –

He thinks of that wonderful moment when Agent Parsons had come out of Steve’s hospital room and announced that Steve was awake. He remembers rushing to the door only to find Barnes holding Steve tight, and watching as Steve finally broke down and cried. Steve refused to break in front of everyone else, but he could fall apart with his friend. Only with Bucky, only for Bucky. 

Bucky, who was always at Steve’s side as he slept, holding Steve’s hand, day in, day out. Tony had wanted to be the person sitting there. He’d wanted to touch Steve then, just to feel him breathe, but he’d had to settle for watching the rise and fall of Steve’s chest from afar, hearing the steady beep of his heartbeat filtered through a machine. 

It got too hard to watch Barnes there so he’d buried himself in work all day – work which would bring Bucky fully and completely home to Steve, which is an irony that’s like a knife to the gut – and he snuck back in at night when no one else was there. He had the appropriate clearance; it was only a matter of making nice with the on duty nurse so she wouldn’t report his unorthodox visiting times. After the second or third night spent at Steve’s bedside, sleeping twisted forward with his head against Steve’s stomach, the nurse hadn’t bothered him much. 

Steve’s hand is strong against the back of his neck now and Tony closes his eyes tightly before letting Steve pull him in. If he looks at Steve, he’ll lose the battle and the war in one fell swoop. His willpower has never been that strong to begin with. 

“I really thought I might never see you again,” Tony murmurs, tilting his face upward, unconsciously drifting toward Steve’s mouth. Steve’s forehead presses against his and they hold each other like they did during that moment by the pond in Aspen, that instant when Tony had realized he was in way over his head with this man. 

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t understand why Steve’s apologizing, but the pain loaded into those two words breaks his heart anyway. He feels it shatter, all those cracks and fissures giving way. His hand tightens in Steve’s hair and Steve sucks in a ragged breath. “Tony, I…”

Tony shifts forward, so slightly, and just like that, his lips brush Steve’s softly. The sensation is electric; it’s like cocaine flooding his system, an instant high that makes everything sharper and brighter, more intense. 

For one brilliant moment, Steve sways toward him. It’s not a kiss. It’s less than that, it’s not even close, but it promises everything he never thought he could have. 

But that brief hope is all he gets. Steve moves his hand from the back of Tony’s neck to the front of his shoulder, softly stilling Tony’s movement. Tony opens his eyes to look at Steve; his eyes had been closed too, and he slowly opens them, long dark eyelashes fluttering. Tony plummets into the storm swelling in Steve’s gaze, his blue eyes dark and clouded. 

Tony holds his breath as Steve stares at him. It’s only a matter of seconds, but it feels like forever’s stretching out before him. 

Then Steve steps away. He rubs a hand over his face, drawing in another deep shuddering breath and exhaling slowly. 

“Probably haven’t eaten anything in days, have you.” His voice is shaky and Tony wants to beg him not to deny this, not to _stop_ , but he can’t get the words out, doesn’t even know what the words would be. Steve glances toward the exit and when he turns back, his face is closed down, his expression shuttered. “We should…I can fix you something. You need to take better care of yourself. Pepper…Pepper will be upset when she gets back.”

“She won’t be all that concerned,” Tony replies. It doesn’t hit him at first that Steve might not know. Steve’s forehead wrinkles in confusion and Tony realizes that Steve hasn’t a clue. “She’s gone, Steve.”

“I know, Clint said she left. I assumed she was on another business trip.”

“Nope. Not a business trip. Pepper and I…She’s taking some time off from…all of this.” 

“But she’s coming _back_ , right?”

“To work, yes. Not to me. We’re done.” Tony watches Steve carefully, reading the minute changes in his expression for some sign that maybe Steve’s moral code was the only thing keeping him from acknowledging whatever was happening here. 

“Is it because of me?” And yet despite what had nearly happened, Tony hadn’t really thought Steve was _there_ yet in understanding how deep this thing between them ran. 

It turns out, he isn’t. 

In the next breath, Steve makes clear what he really meant. 

“Maybe I can talk to her, Tony. I know this is a dangerous line of work we’re in, but Lukin, the Red Room…they’re after me. They’re not after you, this doesn’t have to involve Iron Man-“

“God, Steve, it wasn’t about that.” Tony runs both his hands through his hair. “And just so you know, if there’s someone after _one_ of us, that matters to _all_ of us. Don’t you ever think you’re alone in this or that anything’s only about you. How can you even _think_ after all this –”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Steve’s frustrated, and Tony knows exactly how he feels. He’d be better off banging his head against a wall. “I know what Pepper means to you and I thought maybe if I could make her see –”

“She sees just fine. In fact, she sees everything more clearly than we do. That’s why she left.” 

“Tony, I’m sorry. Don’t know what to say. Are you okay?”

Tony chuckles darkly to himself. If it were only a bit of personal risk, he might tell Steve how much of a mess he is and why, but he doesn’t want to put Steve through that. It’s startlingly obvious he’s last in a growing list of people who clearly love Steve, and he knows that it’s only a matter of time before Natasha or Bucky take their place by Steve’s side. Hell, he’s helping Bucky get there. It’d just confuse Steve if Tony suddenly threw all his bullshit down on top of everything else. 

“Tony, why don’t you come upstairs. You need to eat, and you need to get some sleep.” Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and Tony hesitates weakly for only a second before throwing off the touch and stepping away.

“What I need is for you to leave me the hell alone.” 

He may as well have punched Steve in the face for the reaction he gets. Steve’s visibly stunned; he stares at Tony for a long, hard moment, his wide blue eyes eventually narrowing and his open mouth closing into a frown. 

“You don’t mean that.” Steve states crisply, apparently thinking it’ll brook no argument if he declares it in Captain mode. Steve should really know better.

“Of course I mean it, Cap. Why don’t you go find Natasha and do some more making up, making out, whatever it is you that two are doing, and I’ll come find you when I finish fixing your friend. Then the two of them can battle it out and you can leave me out of it.”

Steve’s bewildered now, and it begins to feel like it used to, before Colorado, before Vegas, before everything. Steve’s perplexed, and he’s pissed off, and no one almost kissed anybody. 

Tony pointedly turns away from Steve, circling around to the table where the Mark VIII is scattered in snarled pieces. There’s nothing to be done for it but he pretends there is anyway, figuring Steve can’t tell the difference. 

“You can leave.” Tony brushes Steve off without looking up. 

It’s still a few minutes of tense silence before he hears the door slide open and closed, loud against the quiet. He lifts his head. 

Steve is gone.

*******

It’s Bruce and Betty that finally figure out how to wipe the programming from Barnes’ brain. They succeed because they work better together than Tony and Bruce do, which annoys him, and also because they both understand neuroscience better than Tony does, which annoys him even more.

It shouldn’t matter, because he’d stopped giving the project his all after the last incident with Steve in his workshop. Wiping out the Winter Soldier would only take Steve further away from him, would only be both selfless and self-defeating. He’s never been one to shy away from self-harm and self-destruction, but it got to be too much hurt for even him to handle. Seeing Bruce growing steadily happier in Betty’s company didn’t help much either. 

Old lovers reuniting and all that. 

He leaves for Malibu for a few days. The house is crushingly Pepper-less so he Howard Hughes’ it for as long as he can personally stand it. Fury calls him after four days and says he’d prefer Stark back in the city to keep an eye on things as Bruce and Betty set to work on Barnes, but Tony doesn’t oblige. 

Things must go roughly because he gets a few late night calls from Steve, telling him with false cheer that Bucky is improving but in the same breath asking Tony to please come back home. Tony erases the voicemails and doesn’t return the calls. Steve eventually stops and Tony feels worse about that than anything else. 

When he returns to New York three weeks later, Bucky Barnes is apparently better than ever. And staying on Steve’s floor, because that’s the kind of bullshit Tony’s opened himself up to now. 

No one’s around when he actually gets back, though. He heads to the kitchen alone, JARVIS going through the list of appliances and items Thor has broken since he returned this time. The dishwasher is toast, and he doesn’t understand how Thor managed it. There’s spaghetti sauce all over its interior and it looks like there may have been a fire. The god has a gift for pointless destruction. He’s glad Thor’s only on planet every so often and spends most of that time with Jane Foster. She can bear the brunt of his utterly ridiculous behavior.

He pours a triple espresso into a mug of coffee as JARVIS fills him in on what mess awaits him in the gym because Clint had challenged Thor to some kind of indoor clay pigeon contest of sorts, lightning bolts versus arrows. Tony doesn’t want to think about it. That’s the kind of stuff Captain America should be putting a stop to if his attentions weren’t otherwise occupied. 

All at once the droll tones of JARVIS explaining how Thor’s encounter with a medicine ball went horribly awry are drowned out by an avalanche of noise. Steve rounds the corner first, Bucky less than half a step behind him. It’s like a merry band of brothers piling into his kitchen, everyone boisterous and smiling. Even Natasha looks mildly happy. Only Bruce and Betty are absent; but Thor has evidently brought Jane and Darcy along this time and Darcy’s loud enough to make up for four people, much less two.

“Brother Stark!” Thor booms, grinning.

“He lives!” Darcy shouts, throwing her arms up in a triumphant V and nearly punching Jane in the face. Luckily Jane’s a quick thinker and ducks, leaving Darcy’s hand to smack uselessly against Thor’s broad chest. “Stark’s back, Clint you owe me five bucks.”

Tony stares at them all over the rim of his coffee cup, pausing mid-sip. 

Steve has him arm slung over Bucky’s shoulders; Bucky has his mechanical arm wrapped familiarly around Steve’s waist. The thing looks so damn close to real now that it’s obvious SHIELD’s furnished an upgrade. Tony can’t bring himself to care that the new tech isn’t his. Steve and Bucky are both wearing similar blue t-shirts, looking like poster boys for the American Dream, and it’s thoroughly obnoxious. 

He wants to shoot something. He wants to blow something up in a way he hasn’t since before Afghanistan. Even the Jericho would not suffice at this moment. 

“Good to see you back, Tony.” Steve says, his face lit up and his smile soft and easy. He looks at Tony like he really is glad to see him, and Tony goes back to drinking his coffee, swallowing down his urge toward violence with it.

“We were afraid you might have given up your territory,” Clint remarks, practically vaulting over the counter and onto one of the bar stools near where Tony stands. “Since the tower’s been overrun with crazyass superheroes.”

“And their lovely compatriots,” Darcy adds, flipping her long wavy hair over her shoulder. “We have a secret handshake now.” 

And Lord, she holds her hand out toward Steve - _Steve_ , of all people – and they do a long series of silly stupid finger snap flick kind of gestures before ending with a fist bump explosion. Steve chuckles over it like it’s the best thing he’s ever done and Bucky mouths something like _You are such a goober_ and shakes his head, smiling fondly. 

“Yeah. I’m never doing that.” Tony states, not amused. 

“Oh it’s okay,” Jane assures him, bright and cheerful. Her cheeks are rosy and her smile is sweet. If Tony didn’t know she was fucking brilliant, he might be tempted to write her off as a chirpy dimwit. “Only Thor and Steve do it anyway.”

“They’re the only ones _cool_ enough to do it, you mean. The rest of y'all are losers.” Darcy comes to sit next to Clint, whacking him on the shoulder and then holding out her hand palm up, making a gimme gimme gesture. The bright red of her nails matches her bold lipstick. “Fork over the Abe Lincoln, Robin Hood. Mama needs some Starbucks.”

Clint reluctantly digs into his wallet and hands over a bill. Darcy rolls it up and tucks it into her leopard-print bra. That’s when Tony notices the small metal circle tag clasped to the center of the plunging v-neckline of her teal t-shirt, the purple clip-on button decorated with an ivy-twined white M. 

Hell, they took a group trip to the Met, which _had_ to be Steve’s idea. He wonders if the place is still standing. Even he can’t afford to replace an entire building full of priceless works of art.

“Pray, tell, dear Tony, what brings you back to this fair city? We have much missed you in your long absence.” Thor’s coming in for a hug, he’s got missile lock, and Tony ducks out of the way just in time. 

“Work. You know, always work.” Tony pulls his phone out of his pocket, dismissing a carefully cordial text from Pepper about a board meeting tomorrow at one. Considering it’s only down on floor thirty-seven he’s going to have to come up with something really creative to get himself out of it. 

“I tried calling you a few times.” Steve’s words are surprisingly and tellingly soft, considering the company they’re in. Tony barely glances at him, cursing himself for being so attuned to the man that even a fleeting look is enough to register the vulnerability plainly written all over Steve’s face. He doesn’t miss the suspicious glare that Bucky shoots his way either. 

“Huh. I didn’t get any messages.” Tony shrugs, hitting a few buttons and sending a text to himself. It dings on arrival and he holds up his phone as evidence of pressing matters. “Hey look, I gotta go. Catch you cats later.”

He ends up going to the board meeting the next day, if only to have a handy excuse to turn down Steve’s invitation to join him and Bucky at the batting cages. The last thing he needs is an image of Steve in a baseball shirt, biceps bulging, as he makes perfect swing after perfect swing. The pair would probably spend the time waxing nostalgic for the days of the Dodgers at Ebbets Field and gazing at one another adoringly. Tony’s not sad to miss it. 

He makes a spontaneous trip to see Rhodey in D.C. for the weekend when Bucky says he’s taking Steve out to Coney Island and asks Tony if he’d like to come along. He suspects Bucky only offers because he’s positive Tony will say no. Of course, it turns out Rhodey is in Egypt so Tony winds up visiting the Air and Space Museum three times, alone. He debates going to the National Gallery and picking Steve up a souvenir and decides against it. But at the Museum of American History he breaks the rules and takes a picture of himself with the Star Spangled Banner, knowing Steve would get a kick out of it. He never sends it. 

The whole trip would’ve been a lot better if he’d been with Steve. He realizes how idiotic the sentiment is, considering he’d gone to D.C. to _avoid_ Steve. He returns to the city with his tail between his legs only to find a Coney Island _Master of Magic_ coffee mug waiting for him on his workshop bench. It’s certainly not from Bucky. 

Steve and his best pal continue hitting all the Big Apple sights, playing tourist as if they’re foreigners and not native New Yorkers. It hardly seems to matter that most NYC landmarks haven’t changed much since Steve and Bucky left for Europe in ’43; they want to see them anyway. Clint and Natasha go with them almost everywhere. He suspects that is part Fury’s doing because the director still doesn’t trust Barnes in the slightest and wants to keep an eye on him. This will probably be the only thing he and Fury will ever agree on. 

Despite the fact their camaraderie is probably founded on direct orders, Tony’s stomach still twists with jealousy whenever he sees the group of four together, thick as thieves. It’s like being a fifteen year old kid at MIT again, watching the cool kids together floating easily through life while he spent his time alone in the robotics lab. Back then he used his money and bravado to hook the friends he was in actuality too insecure to attract on his own, but that’s not really an option now. These aren’t people distracted by flash and false arrogance. 

That makes it all the more surprising when Saturday night rolls around and Steve walks into the workshop with a box from Ray’s, a bottle of scotch, two glasses, and no other companions. If Steve is trying to catch him off guard, he’s done so with aplomb. 

“Here.” Is all Steve says, setting the box down and flipping open the lid. He takes a piece of pizza for himself and pulls up a stool. Tony stays stock-still, outright staring as Steve folds the slice and pretty much demolishes most of it in a few bites. 

Steve lifts an eyebrow and nudges the box toward him, not saying anything more. Tony ignores the pizza and tilts the bottle of booze back, reading the label.

“Scotch doesn’t really go well with pizza,” he comments and Steve snorts a little.

“You’ve never been all that discerning before,” Steve retorts, not so much critical as maybe a little annoyed. Tony gives him half a shrug and opens the bottle, pours himself two fingers. He hesitates, then pours a glass for Steve too and slides it over.

“So what’s the occasion?” Tony eyes the pizza as he takes a sip of his drink, pondering how much of a victory Steve would make of it if he helped himself. It smells wonderful and he hasn’t eaten in…well, he can’t actually remember how long it’s been. Long enough for his stomach to stop growling and give up hope of nourishment. He swallows his pride and takes a slice. 

Steve doesn’t say anything about it. He doesn’t answer Tony’s question either. 

“Where’s your entourage?”

“My what?”

“Barnes, Clint, Natasha. You don’t go anywhere without them these days.”

“What can I say, Tony, I like spending time with people who like spending time with me.” Steve leans forward, grabbing another slice. 

“Don’t know why you’re down here then,” Tony mutters and to Tony’s surprise, Steve rolls his eyes and sticks his foot out, kicking the edge of Tony’s rolling chair and sending him a few feet back. 

“Can you just shut up and eat your pizza and stop being an ass?” 

Before Tony can help it, a genuine laugh escapes him.

“Cap, that was almost _mean_.” He draws his chair back, perhaps a bit closer than it was originally. Steve rolls his eyes again but his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Seriously though, where are the Three Musketeers?”

“Upstairs watching those Jason Bourne films.”

“Fitting.”

“We can join them if you’d like.” Steve doesn’t sound all too keen on the idea though. 

“I’m good here.” Tony pops the last bit of crust into his mouth and starts in on another piece. He lifts his foot and rests it on one of the bars of Steve’s stool, keeping his own chair from sliding as he moves. They eat the rest of the pizza in companionable silence. 

When it’s gone, Steve gathers the empty box and the still half-full bottle of scotch and he leaves. Tony never gets an explanation as to what actually prompted the seemingly impromptu dinner, but he hadn’t asked.

*******

After that, it gets to be kind of a thing. Steve will show up once a day with some kind of food and without a word unceremoniously plop it down on Tony’s workstation. Steve doesn’t always partake; sometimes he just makes himself comfortable at one of the other tables and pulls some art supplies out and works on his own stuff.

Around day eight, Tony decides he needs to break the unspoken rule of minimal conversation. Steve’s been sketching for four hours already and his presence is distracting. Tony can’t focus when Steve’s only a few feet away, biting his lip as he concentrates on whatever he’s drawing. He’d tried turning up the music to drive Steve out but it hadn’t seemed to register. 

He switches off the Led Zeppelin and walks to the edge of Steve’s table. 

“So. What are you even doing?” Tony asks, well aware he sounds accusatory and combatant right off the bat. 

“I’m drawing.” Steve replies simply, not missing a beat and not looking up. If Tony’s tone bothers him, he doesn’t show it. “I do that, you know.”

“I do know. Any reason you have to do it here?” 

“Not really. Am I bothering you? I can leave.”

Tony can’t bring himself to say so. Steve’s usually so polite and conscientious that he thinks maybe he won’t have to, but Steve stays put where he is. 

He manages to last another hour, unable to stop himself from watching Steve’s charcoal smudged hands deftly working over the broad page, noting the way Steve’s carefully combed hair has fallen forward in disarray over his forehead. 

It’s when Steve stands up and stretches, working a kink out of his back from being hunched over on a metal stool for hours, that Tony breaks. The sight of Steve’s thin t-shirt riding up and revealing the waistband of his underwear peeking out from the top of his jeans, the sharp cut of his hips showing and his abs flexing as he stretches – it’s like an old Calvin Klein ad come to life right in his workshop and he can’t fucking stand it. 

Pushing the waste of a project he’s been failing on all day off the holo desktop and into the trash, he shuts the screen down and storms out of the workshop. He doesn’t come back. 

He checks with JARVIS later and finds out that Steve stayed down there alone until dinnertime, occasionally glancing up to see if Tony had returned but not budging otherwise. It’s then that Tony decides something needs to be done. 

He spends the whole of the next day clearing out one of the basement levels, putting Happy to work moving all the classic cars to a different storage area and sending SI interns on runs down to Canal to pick up all kinds of art supplies from Pearl. One of the clerks at the store calls the financial office around midday to check and make sure that some NYU kids haven’t stolen his credit card to fund their school year’s worth of projects.

Pepper phones after that, though she doesn’t ask what he’s doing or why. She just reminds him to return all the interns in one piece and to not go overboard on whatever he’s doing for Steve this time. She knows him much too well. 

He knocks on Steve’s door around seven o’clock, having missed dinner again but sure Steve’s probably still in the building. 

Bucky answers. He’s shirtless, his hair wet, a toothbrush hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He simply looks at Tony for a beat before opening the door all the way and motioning for him to come in. 

“Make yourself at home,” Bucky mutters around a mouthful of toothpaste, not sounding all that gracious. He doesn’t ask if Tony’s here for Steve, because that much is a given. Tony wanders toward the living room as Bucky disappears down the hallway, giving the bathroom door a cursory knock before barreling inside. Tony can hear the shower running. 

He absolutely does not picture Steve in the shower; moreover, he does not consider that from the looks of things Bucky might have been sharing that shower with him. It doesn’t matter. Theoretically, evidence of Bucky and Steve being together should make this easier to do. 

Tony busies himself with cataloging the changes Steve’s made to the place since he officially moved in. The bookcases are filled, mostly classics and non-fiction. He runs a finger along their spines, reading the titles. A lot of history tomes, most of it covering the past half-century. Some art collections – modern and pop and some photography. Most bindings are cracked, like Steve bought them all secondhand. There are a few framed photographs, all of the pictures black & white and faded. He notices his father is in the background of one of them, part of a small crowd gathered around Steve. It’s strange to see Howard in a photograph and not have him be the clear center of attention. 

There’s a physics textbook on the coffee table that piques his interest; it’s spread open and there’s writing along the margins, a cramped scrawl that he recognizes as Bruce’s. There’s also a notebook next to it and the perfectly elegant old-fashioned handwriting on its pages is very much Steve’s. 

A pillow and pile of stacked blankets are set to one side of the couch, like someone’s been sleeping out here at night. For the sake of his sanity Tony tries not to read too much into it, moving on quickly. 

The flat screen television has a stack of Blu-rays and DVDs beside it on the stand. He runs a finger over the titles, amused to find season one of _Gilmore Girls_ mixed in with classics like _Breathless_ and blockbusters like _Indiana Jones_. He doesn’t know who the closet _Gilmore_ fan is, but he suspects it’s Clint. There’s also a copy of _Secretary_ , something he’s sure Natasha’s responsible for, and Tony moves it to the top of the pile, only wishing he could be there to see Steve’s face as someone explained a dom/sub relationship to him.

Bucky comes back in, free of toothpaste and fully clothed. He runs a towel over his damp hair, the joints of his mechanical arm quietly whirring. He looks Tony up and down, his gaze damning.

“Steve will be out in a minute. You want a drink?” He’s in the kitchen before Tony can respond. Tony follows him over, taking a seat at the counter. As Bucky digs in the freezer for ice, Tony surveys the few things stuck to the fridge door. A couple of napkin sketches drawn by Steve, probably saved by Bucky. A magnetic clip holding a stack of grocery coupons – _coupons_. A strip of photos catches Tony’s attention. It must be from a photo booth on the boardwalk at Coney Island, because Tony can’t imagine where else they would have found one these days. He has no idea how four people crammed into one of those tiny spaces, but they seemed like they’d had fun trying. 

In the first frame, Bucky is giving Steve bunny ears because they’re apparently giant dorks, and Clint is doing his best Blue Steel. A simple round magnet mostly obscures the second frame. The third shows Steve hearing, Bucky seeing, and Natasha speaking no evil, while Clint, his fingers out in devil horns and his tongue wagging in a way that would make Gene Simmons jealous, apparently _is_ the evil. In the last frame, Clint is pressing a sloppy kiss to the side of Natasha’s face; she’s rolling her eyes but smiling at the same time. Bucky has fallen half out of the shot but Tony can see Steve, caught mid-laugh and gorgeously happy. 

“Here.” Bucky hands him a scotch and soda and takes a long drink of his own. He keeps his eyes carefully trained on Tony the whole time. “I knew your dad, y’know. Don’t think I told you that.”

“Fantastic.” Tony mumbles, tilting his wrist to swirl the ice in his glass. “If you’re going to tell me how wonderful he was, I’d rather get a few more of these in me first.”

“Actually, from what I can recall, I kinda thought he was an arrogant self-centered prick,” Bucky states, not smiling. “I’m not Steve, I don’t own a pair of rose-colored glasses.”

“Well. Your candor is refreshing, Barnes.”

“You’re the first to say so, Stark. Stevie usually tells me to put a lid on it.” 

“Stevie.” Tony repeats to himself, chuckling a little. He can’t even imagine calling Steve that as anything but a tease. Bucky says it naturally and with genuine affection. 

“A whole bunch of us were going out tonight, a good-bye, see you later kinda celebration.” 

“You leaving?” Tony can’t help but ask and Bucky smiles sardonically, like he knows Tony would love that. 

“Tash and Clint head out on a week long mission tomorrow, Betty has a conference in Singapore, and Thor’s going with Darce and Jane back to New Mexico to work on that whole Rainbow whatever situation.” Bucky finishes his drink off; Tony hasn’t touched his. “How ‘bout you turn down my invitation now so Steve doesn’t have to hear it. If I have to see the look on his face one more time when you say no, it’ll be one time too many.” 

“Okay then.” Tony agrees. “No.”

“Fine. Why’re you here, anyway?” 

“I actually have something to show Steve.” Tony explains, looking up as Steve walks into the room with perfect timing. He’s fresh from the shower, clothes sticking a little to his damp skin. Tony smiles at him, ignoring the double pull of lust and affection. “I have something to show you. Come on.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now.” He thumbs over his shoulder toward the door, already taking steps toward the exit. Steve glances toward Bucky.

“Well we’re supposed to meet up with-“

“This won’t take long. You’ll be back in time for your night of debauchery.”

“That’s not at all-“

“We stand around here jabbering any longer, we’re not going to have time for anything,” Bucky cuts in curtly, his voice sharp. Steve laughs a little, the sound of it tinged nervous. Tony doesn’t miss that Bucky’s tense attitude sets Steve ill at ease. 

“Okay.” Steve pulls at the hem of his t-shirt, straightening his appearance. “Do I need my coat, are we going somewhere?”

“Just down a few floors. Grab your shoes. Barnes, you can come too, it’s not anything secret.”

“Gee, thanks.” Bucky mumbles and falls into line behind Steve, clapping a hand over Steve’s shoulder and playfully shoving him out the door, nearly pushing him into Tony in the process. Tony hits 3B on the elevator as they get in and Steve shoots him a questioning look.

“Just down a few floors?”

“Well, what’s a few. It’s a relative term.” Tony shrugs. They’re all silent until around floor twenty-five when Barnes turns to him, sarcastically hopeful.

“Stark, did you get him a pony? Please tell me you got him a pony.”

“Bucky,” Steve chuckles.

“I’ve always wanted a pony.” 

“You never once wanted a pony.”

“I did too,” Bucky shoots back. “I asked for one and Sister Mary Constance told me greedy little orphans go to hell.”

“Oh she did not,” Steve huffs.

“I’m sorry, did we not share the same childhood?” Bucky pretends confusion. “Sister Mary Constance was in league with the devil.”

“You’re just saying that because she confiscated your baseball cards.”

“Burnt them, Steve. She burnt-“

“Okay boys, behave, we’re here.” Tony interrupts as the doors open on Steve’s new art studio. He steps out first, making a sweeping gesture toward the newly remodeled space. “Check it out, Rogers.”

Steve walks forward, the realization dawning on his face as he takes it all in. Tony made sure there’s everything Steve could ever want – easel, sketch table, oils, acrylics, charcoal, pencils, brushes of every shape and size. There are racks of different press watercolor paper, newsprint and pads and pre-stretched canvasses. There’s a small woodshop set up with nails and staple guns and gesso, wood and a miter saw in case Steve decides to frame and stretch his own. Steve passes the wash station and runs his hand along the set of wide, slim drawers to lay his work flat and safe to dry. He taps on the light board as if not sure what it’s even for. 

“This is all for me?” Steve sounds more bewildered than honored or grateful. Bucky stops beside Tony, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. He lets out a low, impressed whistle. 

“Hell, Stark, if you’re giving out more floors, I could use a room.”

“I thought you were staying with Steve.”

“It’s a helluva lot harder to share a bunk with him now that he’s double the size, triple the weight, and one of us is waking the other with our stupid nightmares every five minutes,” Bucky explains. “He’s been insisting on giving me the bed for weeks now.”

“But I thought-“

“This is too much, Tony.” Steve interrupts, coming back over. He’s flushed, looking worried. “I can’t accept this.”

“Yes you can.” Tony picks up a 2H from a nearby glass of pencils and hands it to Steve along with a sketchpad. “You should really commemorate this moment.”

“Tony, I really can’t.”

“Well, you don’t have much choice. Now you have your own space, and I can finally have my workshop back. It all works out great.”

The second he says it Tony knows he shouldn’t have. Pushing Steve away was one thing, but that wasn’t a push. That was the verbal equivalent of a pile driver. Steve’s face falls, the color draining from his cheeks. Steve doesn’t even bother trying to recuperate; he just stands there looking hurt. 

“Don’t you like it?” Tony asks even though he knows that’s not the problem. Bucky shifts beside him uncomfortably as Steve stammers, searching for words.

“I…you didn’t have to do this. I don’t need it.” He says quietly, eyes averted.

“It doesn’t matter if you _need_ it, do you want it?”

Tony hadn’t realized that Steve was still holding one of his pencils until he hears it snap in Steve’s grip, the upper half tinkling to the floor. Steve looks down at his hand, his long fingers unfurling slowly and letting go the bottom half of the pencil too. It rolls away.

“No.” Steve lifts his head. Tony locks his jaw determinedly and stares back, refusing to react to the expression on Steve’s face, no matter how beautiful and broken he looks. “I don’t want it. I…I’m sorry that I thought things were different. If I was being such a bother, you could’ve told me to go. I’ll leave you alone from now on.” He shoves the sketchbook at Tony’s chest and pushes past him. He jabs the elevator button, hard. The doors open immediately, the elevator not having been recalled elsewhere. 

“Steve, hey, come on – that’s not-“ Tony starts, but Steve shakes his head and looks pointedly away until the elevator closes. 

Tony looks down at the sketchbook in his hands, wondering why it always feels so terrible when he gets exactly what he asked for. 

“You’re a stupid fuck, you know that?” Bucky snaps, turning to face him. Tony sighs. 

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Barnes.”

“Your father may have been an asshole, Stark, but he wasn’t a _coward_.”

A biting retort is on the tip of his tongue but it dies when he sees the disdainful, angry look on Bucky’s face. He’s livid, barely holding back tears. It must be horrible to love someone so much that you hurt when they hurt. 

“That was a real shit thing to do.” 

“Don’t have to tell me.”

“Yet you did it anyway.”

Tony doesn’t know what Barnes wants him to do here. He’s not about to explain his reasoning to the man. So he shrugs, takes the sketchbook Steve shoved at him and sets it aside. There’s not much to say, so he just gives the version of the truth that seems the most obvious.

“You’re much better for him than I could ever be.”

Bucky stares at him for a moment, face pale, and Tony wonders why the hell he looks so surprised. There’s no way that either he or Steve could’ve thought their relationship was a secret – neither of them are dumb. 

“That’s not…why would you even…” Bucky starts, and Tony chuckles, bitter and not at all amused. That sets the other man off.

“I thought you were supposed to be some genius.” Barnes gets in his face. Tony’s startled but tries not to back up, pulling his head back slightly but planting his feet. “Steve and I are _family_. It’s not and has _never_ been about _that_.”

“Right,” Tony snorts. “And I’m the Easter Bunny.”

“No, you’re an idiot. He wasn’t in your workshop everyday because he needed a place to draw, for chrissakes. He wanted to be with _you_.”

Bucky rears back and storms to the elevator. The car isn’t waiting around this time and he swears under his breath, punching at the air.

“Fucking fuck. Where are the stairs?” He demands. Tony doesn’t say anything as he points toward the other exit. Bucky mutters his whole way across the room. “I have no idea what he sees in you. Natasha warned me – Always been hopeless, getting his heart crushed – damned fool, I don’t even-” 

The metal door slams shut behind him. Tony stares at the empty art studio, trying to process everything that just happened. 

All he comes away with is that Steve might actually have had feelings for him.

And he’d totally blown it.


	8. Chapter 8

“Checkmate.” 

Bruce pulls off his glasses and rubs his nose, looking pained. 

“I kind of can’t believe this. I can’t lie.”

“Did he whoop your ass _again_ , Banner?” Bucky laughs, entering the small living room with three fresh bottles of beer and plopping down on the loveseat beside Clint. He gives Clint one bottle, keeps one for himself, and reaches over and hands Bruce the last. “You forget that Stevie’s actually a big time egghead under all that handsome.”

“Ah, it is quite dangerous to underestimate your opponent, doctor. ‘Tis a folly that has felled many a fine warrior.” Thor chimes in, stroking his beard as he eyes the chessboard. He leans over to study the finely carved pieces. “I must admit I do find myself perplexed with this elaborate game. The rules seem most arbitrary.”

“Most rules are,” Clint comments wryly. 

“I’m sorry, Dr. Banner.” Steve apologizes sheepishly, which only makes Bruce chuckle. “Spent a lotta of time in bed as a kid. Not much to do besides read and play board games.” 

“No, I should be the one apologizing – couldn’t even give you a run for your money.” Bruce puts his hands over his knees and pushes up, standing and vacating his seat for anyone else who might be up to the challenge. He sits down on the armrest of Betty’s chair and she idly slides her hand across his lower back as he slips his arm loosely around her shoulders. Steve envies how comfortable they seem with one another. Even with all their history, all that went wrong and could yet go wrong, it’s clear they’re still in love. 

“I’ll play you,” Jane offers, clambering up from her place on the floor. She’s probably just eager for a real seat. Steve had run out of room rather quickly. This gathering hadn’t exactly been planned and his – and now Bucky’s – apartment isn’t equipped for this much company. 

“Yo, bitches, dinner’s almost ready!” Darcy pops her head in from the kitchen. “Wash your hands and stuff, don’t make me mommy you. Unless you’re into that.” She winks at Bucky and Clint before ducking back. 

“She’s quite a dame.” Bucky claps a hand to Clint’s knee. Steve was right about the two of them – they get along swell. He’s glad he’s not the only pal Bucky has now, ‘cause he’s sure he’s probably not enough. “Maybe you should take her out.”

“Think she was looking at you, bro,” Clint replies, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Not quite up for that yet.” Bucky takes a long pull from his bottle. “She does have nice gams though.” Bucky winks at Steve and he can’t help blushing. It’s an old habit – Bucky making lewd comments about ladies embarrasses him, and Bucky knows it. He smiles apologetically at Jane but she doesn’t seem at all bothered by Bucky’s comment.

“Guess we’ll save our game for later.” Steve finishes re-setting the chess pieces before carefully setting the board aside. 

“Definite rain check. You don’t know it yet, but I already beat you.” Jane grins at him playfully, biting at one corner of her mouth. She reaches across the table and in mock challenge pokes his bicep with a finger. Steve holds back a chuckle and manages to play affronted. Her poke turns into a more defined grab and she makes an impressed noise. “Well, Darcy wasn’t wrong about that.”

Steve nearly asks what Darcy wasn’t wrong about when Jane adjusts her grip, squeezing his arm again, the implication quite clear. His face heats and Jane giggles.

“You’re too cute. Thor never blushes when people feel him up.”

“Steven is of the most modest sort!” Thor’s broad palm lands on his shoulder. “My father would hold him in the highest regard, for humility is a quality upon which he places great value.”

“I say if you’ve got it, flaunt it,” Darcy announces, carrying in two pans from the kitchen, steam rising from them in waves. The smell is amazing; his stomach rumbles. She places the food on the table and then puts her potholder-clad hands on her hips, pushing her ample bosom forward with a knowing smile. Her bright red brassiere is pretty plain to see through the thin fabric of her purple v-neck tee. Steve respectfully looks elsewhere but Clint lets out a hoot of approval. 

Natasha emerges from the kitchen, shooting Clint a casual glare. Clint’s non-plussed but Steve notices Bucky carefully keep his eyes away from Darcy’s shapely form, following Natasha as she moves across the room. She puts a large bowl of salad and a stack of plates, silverware and napkins on the table, moving things around to make everything fit on the small space. 

“Oo, don’t forget the processed cheese!” Darcy races out of the room and returns victorious with a green and white canister of what Steve thinks is _supposed_ to be grated Parmesan. The container joins the tableaux with typical Darcian flourish. “Dinner is served.”

“And there are three more pans of lasagna in the oven,” Natasha adds as a disclaimer. “So eat what you want.”

“Great, now Thor’s going to take that as a challenge,” Clint mutters as he gets up from the couch, circling around to get to the table. Darcy slaps his hand away from the pans and then gestures to Bruce and Betty, waving them over so enthusiastically it’s like she’s flagging a plane in.

“Ladies first! Betty! Get your skinny ass over here and eat.” 

“Such etiquette!” Clint reaches over and ruffles Darcy’s long hair, messing it into a tangle. She groans in dismay.

“Not near the food! Ugh!” She slaps at him again, ducking away. Bucky winks at Steve again and they rise at the same time, Bucky casually wrapping his good arm around Steve’s shoulders as they join the others. 

“You think they know they flirt like teenagers?” Bucky comments quietly, warmth in his voice. “I give ‘em two weeks before they get into some seriously adult behavior.” 

“I wouldn’t know much about either,” Steve admits reluctantly, both flirting and everything _else_ quite out of his realm of expertise. He turns his attention toward the beautiful dinner laid out before them. “Tasha, this all looks wonderful. Thank you so much for everything.”

There is a chorus of agreement and Natasha nods, and is about to say something when a look of annoyance tightens over her face. She swears in Russian.

“I forgot to slice the bread.” She turns on her feel and disappears into the kitchen. Steve makes a move to follow her, offer a hand, but Bucky pulls him back.

“Best not to get in Tasha’s way when knives are involved.”

“ _Thor_ ,” Jane suddenly admonishes, capturing everyone’s attention. Thor is serving himself up a monstrous plate of lasagna, the piece covering the entire plate edge to edge. Half the pan is left empty. He already has a forkful in his mouth, making happy noises as he chews and swallows.

“This is indeed a delicacy,” Thor announces, obviously pleased as punch. “We have no such dish in all of Asgard. These Italians you speak of must be masters of the Midgardian culinary arts!” 

“Bruce, would you like-“ Jane’s offer is interrupted by an abrupt knock on the door. Everyone stops, exchanging curious looks.

“I’m not expecting anyone...” Steve shrugs off Bucky’s arm and maneuvers his way to the door. 

And it’s certainly not anyone he expected. 

“Speaking of Italians…” Tony smiles nervously. Pepper’s smile is more grim and determined, if smiles can be such things. 

“Hi, Steve. We’re so sorry to drop by unannounced, but we were in the neighborhood. I hope you’ll forgive our intrusion?” 

“I brought wine and dessert.” Tony adds weakly, holding up a bottle in one hand and a pink bakery box in the other. 

Steve stares at Tony, not sure what to say or how to act. Seeing Tony hurts, yes, but there’s also a strange sense of relief, like he’d been unknowingly holding his breath and now can exhale. Tony looks beautiful in the way only Tony can be beautiful, smooth but just a little bit rough, suave but just a little bit broken. Even with a short glance, Steve can see cracks in that polished veneer, the small things that make Tony gorgeous in ways well beyond his appearance. Everything would be a lot easier if Steve couldn’t see them. 

He must stare long enough that it becomes uncomfortable, because suddenly Jane takes initiative. 

“Hi, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Jane Foster, uh, Dr. Jane Foster, I’m with Thor…you’re Pepper Potts, right? That’s amazing, so amazing to meet you. And nice. Nice as well.” Her anxious blathering jars Steve out of his shock and he forces the kindest smile he can manage. 

“So sorry, please come in. Sorry. Pepper, let me take your coat.” He assists her in taking it off and then stands there stupidly holding it over his arm. Pepper is in business attire, white blouse, black pencil skirt, like she’s just come from the office. He hadn’t known she was in town, but then again, these days why would he. Darkly, he wonders if she and Tony have reconciled. He reminds himself quickly that it shouldn’t matter. He has no claim to Tony – he’s not even sure he wants one – and Tony’s made it pretty clear that their friendship has severe limitations. 

With this in mind, Steve puts on his best happy face, takes Pepper’s arm and presents her to the group. “I think you know almost everyone now that you’ve met Jane. And Darcy, that’s Darcy over there. She works as an assistant to Dr. Foster.”

“What up, welcome to the jungle,” Darcy flicks a two-finger salute Pepper’s direction and Pepper nods, offering a small smile. 

“You’re just in time for dinner. Natasha made plenty.”

“Natasha cooked?” Tony blurts, his surprise evident. As if on cue, Natasha appears in the kitchen doorway, bread knife in hand and a hard, unwelcoming look on her face. Tony takes a huge step back. 

Steve never told Natasha why he’d left the tower, but from the looks of things she either suspects or she must have found out. Bucky very well may have told her; sometimes the two of them stay up late, talking quietly in Russian and taking apart and cleaning and reassembling her guns. Bucky says it’s calming. Steve doesn’t sleep much either, but he leaves them to their ways of coping and they leave him to his. 

Natasha twirls the knife idly in her hand, the serrated edge evidently not a concern in her talented fingers. 

“Yeah, I cook.” She’s daring him to make something of it. Steve wishes Tony were wise enough not to rise to the bait but he knows it’s not the case. 

“And it’s lasagna...tell me, did you go veggie or meat?” Natasha lifts one eyebrow as Tony evidently decides continuing on this tack is worth the gamble. “I never would’ve figured you for a Giada, Nat. How exactly _does_ a Russian super assassin acquire pasta know-how? Not a lot of borscht in Italian cuisine.”

“Yeah…that’s classified,” Clint pipes up, digging into his own heaping portion of food, unbothered by the tense face-off between his best friend and Tony. Steve realizes no one else is that concerned either, helping themselves to dinner and setting about the room picnic style, grabbing seats on the floor around the coffee table. “She could tell you but then she’d have to kill you.”

“Booze goes on the table, baked goods in the kitchen.” Natasha commands flatly. She gestures in each direction with the knife and, apparently done with Tony, goes to finish with the bread. 

“This seems highly unorthodox. I feel like we should either have the food tested for poison or have Nat tested for alien infiltration,” Tony suggests, wincing when Pepper elbows him sharply in the ribs. She takes the pastry box from Tony and squeezes past Steve, a kind hand resting fleetingly on his shoulder as she goes by. 

“I’ll just go put this in the fridge.” Pepper’s tone is bone dry. She doesn’t seem to be her usual collected self, her face drawn and her posture prim. If the two of them have in fact reconciled, things don’t appear to be going all that well. It bothers him a little that he’s a bit glad. His unkind thought gives him a moment’s pause. Whatever has happened, he doesn’t want Pepper _or_ Tony to be unhappy. 

Tony watches Pepper go and then turns to the group, plastering on a bright smile and jiggling the bottle of wine. 

“So! Wine. I sure as hell want some. You got a corkscrew, Rogers?” 

“What?” Steve is too caught off guard by Tony actually speaking to him to process the question. 

“Here.” Bruce pulls a small Swiss Army knife from his pocket, coming to Steve’s rescue. He could’ve tossed it to Tony but instead hands his plate of lasagna to Betty and gets up, walking to Tony’s side. He places the tool set against Tony’s palm, holding Tony’s grasp for too long a moment. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Tony.”

Tony hesitates, a flicker of _something_ behind his eyes that Steve can’t read.

“Always, Banner.” He quips a beat later. Steve can’t decipher the subtext, but it’s clear the two men were discussing something more than opening a bottle of wine.

With so many people with such large personalities crammed into such a small space, Steve barely has cause to interact with Tony until the plates are long cleared, and he carefully avoids the looks that Tony is sending his way. Conversation is kept light and unfocused, sometimes diverging into separate conversations or sometimes meshing all together in one mess of chatter. The most he and Tony exchange is a request to pass the grated cheese. Darcy had been right about the stuff being delicious. 

After the meal is finished, Bruce bars him from the kitchen because Thor wants to learn how to wash the dishes. Apparently an incident with the dishwasher at the tower had left him wary of using a machine. Steve leaves them to it. 

Bucky is absent when Steve joins the others in the living room and the open window signals where he’s gone. 

“Hey.” He greets Bucky quietly as he steps out onto the fire escape, the metal grating rattling slightly. The night has turned cool. Bucky exhales a long stream of smoke and holds out his cigarette to Steve wordlessly. He takes it between two fingers and brings it to his lips. He stands close enough to Bucky that their arms brush as they both lean against the railing, bent forward with their elbows resting on cold metal. After his drag, he taps the ash away and hands it back to Bucky. “They say now that smoking is unhealthy. Guess it gives you cancer and a whole lot of other nasty things.”

“Yeah. To think the doc once told you smoking would help your asthma.” Bucky grins, shaking his head at the memory. Steve can imagine what he’s thinking of – measly little Steve Rogers, weak and barely able to breathe, coughing his way through his first cigarette. He can remember the feel of Bucky’s hands firm but careful on his shoulders, holding him as he heaved. “Just goes to show you, what the hell does anyone really know.”

“Makes you think,” Steve replies, looking down the street at the neighboring houses, home lights on against the darkness of the night. Behind each window, everyone’s just going about their lives. “In fifty years, people will probably look back on things folks are doing now and wonder how we could all be so stupid.”

“In fifty years? I’m already wondering that every day.”

“Well. You’ve got a bit more perspective.” Steve nudges Bucky with his shoulder and Bucky nudges him back. 

“You should too, grandpa. We’re in this together.” 

“I’d like to say I had the faintest idea about anything, Buck, but to be honest I’m probably more lost than anyone else.” 

Laughter wafts from the apartment and Steve tilts his head toward the window. He can hear them all talking, their chatter warm and inviting. 

“You’ve got yourself a good group of friends,” Bucky comments. 

“They’re your friends too.” Steve reads his friend’s face, hoping that Bucky really gets that and seeing that he doesn't. “You’re one of us.”

Bucky brings the cigarette back to his lips, cheeks hollowing as he breathes in deep. His face is far less gaunt than it was a month ago but his cheekbones still stand in stark relief, his face angled with shadows. He’s silent in consideration as he holds the smoke in for a moment before letting it go. 

“That’s a nice thought. Don’t know how true it is.” He hands the cigarette back to Steve carefully, the stick half gone. 

“Always underestimated how likable you are, Barnes.” 

“No, that’s you,” Bucky corrects, chuckling. Steve doesn’t believe that but it’s never seemed to matter. “Never wanted or needed to make a ton of friends, Steve. Not when I had you.”

And Steve’s never understood that either. But now’s probably not the time to get into it, especially since he’s sure Bucky’s answer will be the same as always. His friend’s stubbornness is second only to his own. 

“I’m really glad you’re here, Bucky,” Steve can’t help but say, a sudden wave of gratitude coming over him. “Can’t tell you how much.”

Bucky shrugs, brushing Steve’s words off. 

“You were doin’ okay without me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were,” Bucky smiles softly, but then he spots something over Steve’s shoulder and the smile falls abruptly, his face turning hard. Steve turns his head to look, concerned.

“Am I interrupting something?” Tony freezes halfway through stepping out the window. Steve hears Bucky heave a sigh. 

“Just two friends having a smoke,” Bucky replies, to which Tony’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Didn’t know you smoked, Rogers.” 

“I don’t, really.” Tony’s gaze travels pointedly down to the cigarette still clasped between his fingers. Steve’s first instinct is to stub it out but he resists, feeling like it would just be a capitulation to Tony’s judgment. “Did you need something?” 

“Uh, well…” Tony comes all the way out onto the landing, shoving his hands into his front pockets. “I know you got the kids in the divorce and all, so I just wanted to make sure that it was cool I was here. It was Pepper’s idea. So…blame her.”

“Huh?”

“I’m going inside.” Bucky mutters, patting Steve on the arm. He pauses at the window before ducking inside. “Maybe then you can apologize for more than party crashing, Stark.” 

Tony doesn’t say anything once they’re alone. 

“Bruce told me he invited you. You’re not crashing.” It’s not exactly the best icebreaker, but there’s nothing else to say. 

“You didn’t really want me here though.” Tony’s needling him to say something mean, and it bothers him in more ways than one. 

“And how do you know what I want, Tony?” 

“Well you didn’t move back to Brooklyn so we could hang out _more_ ,” Tony retorts. Steve opens his mouth to say something unkind and barely manages to stop himself. He’s not playing this game. Tony sighs, tries a different angle. “I meant the art studio as a gift, Steve.”

“No you didn’t,” Steve quickly replies, not for one second letting Tony get away with such a baldfaced lie. He can’t be polite if Tony is going to blatantly treat him like a fool. “That was not a gift. It was a statement.”

“A statement. What exactly was I ‘stating’?”

“You know what you meant, Tony.” Steve stubs out the cigarette on the railing and tosses the butt into the pot of dirt Bucky’s been using as an ashtray. “And I don’t appreciate you coming here when all I’m doing is giving you exactly what you wanted.”

“This is _not_ what I wanted.”

“Well I’m sick and tired of trying to figure you out, Tony. I’m done.”

“Steve,” Tony starts plaintively. Steve ignores him. He has his hand on the window frame, bending to go inside, when Tony’s fingers wrap around his wrist. He turns to face Tony and as he stands upright, Tony’s suddenly pushing him back. He collides with the wall but his grunt is stifled by Tony’s mouth covering his.

The kiss is urgent and demanding. Steve gasps in surprise and Tony slips his tongue inside to deepen things fast. Steve tries to react but his mind is blank, his power to speak and to act wiped away and the space filled with thoughts of Tony and Tony alone. 

The wrist Tony had been holding is pinned back against the wall, but his other free hand fixes a grip on Tony’s waist, fingers digging in and pressing Tony closer. He’s shocked by how good this feels, like it’s something he’s been wanting all along. Maybe he has.

He thinks of Tony’s lips accidentally brushing his that day down in Tony’s workshop and Steve knows that _maybe_ is a lie. He’s wanted this for quite awhile.

He makes a strange whimpering noise when Tony pulls back, opening his eyes at the sudden loss. Tony is staring at him, breathing hard and heavy, his own dark eyes wide. Steve stares back, wondering why Tony stopped. It’s all he can focus on. 

“God, you…” Tony murmurs, dropping the hold on his wrist and reaching to touch the side of his face. “You’re just so…why do you have to be…” Tony leans forward but doesn’t kiss him again, drifting in hesitation. When he begins to draw further away Steve dips his head, making the decision for the both of them. 

Steve’s whole body is reacting to this sudden turn of events, his heart racing and his skin warm. He’s achingly hard and he can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed. Kissing Tony feels so right that he almost can’t believe they’ve never done this before. The whole tangled mess between them just seems to fall loose, everything straightening out. 

Then Tony abruptly pulls away and it all collapses back into a confusing heap.

“Stop,” Tony whispers, pushing him back and putting an arm’s length of space between them. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“What?” Steve asks, breathless and bewildered. His head is spinning. He reaches for Tony but Tony’s too far away. 

“This isn’t a good idea.” Tony won’t look at him and Steve sags back against the wall, drawing in a deep breath and trying to get his thoughts in some kind of order. He can’t _think._

“But… _you_ kissed _me_.” It’s all he can manage, his logic failing to get him further than that. 

“I’m sorry.” Just like that Tony’s inside and out the door before Steve can say another word, leaving him both dumbfounded and dazed.

“I kissed you back,” Steve says to nothing but air, bringing his fingers to his still tingling lips. “You kissed me and I kissed you back.”

“Shit.” The swear comes in two voices and Steve drops his hand, turning his head to find both Bucky and Natasha leaning out the window, evidently having taken Tony’s rushed exit as a cause for alarm. 

Steve doesn’t have anything to add so he stays quiet; the two of them had summed it up quite well.

*******

“Pepper. Hello.”

Steve hears Natasha’s flat greeting from the kitchen and he quickly takes his pan of eggs off the stove, flipping the burner off. In the living room he finds Pepper standing rigid just inside the doorway, looking at Natasha with obvious surprise.

Since Natasha’s wearing nothing but an oversized Captain America t-shirt, Steve can’t say as he blames her.

“Steve.” Pepper says sharply, like she’s about to reprimand him for something. She pauses, looking back at Natasha and then at him, now at a loss for words. “I…Well, I came here because…okay, I wanted to talk to you about Tony. But maybe that wasn’t a good idea.”

“I’m going back to bed,” Natasha tells Steve, ignoring Pepper. She’s pissed at Tony and anyone associated with Tony, and the look of warning she gives him tells him to be careful. “Wake us up when she’s gone.”

Natasha pads back to the bedroom and as soon as the door closes, Pepper turns to him.

“I…I don’t understand,” Pepper sputters. “What in god’s name was that?”

“I’m sorry, I think that’s my fault,” Steve apologizes even though he knows it would irk Natasha to no end to hear him do it. “I know the two of you were friends at one point, but she’s not so happy with Tony right now, and I-“

“I don’t care if she hates my guts, Steve! I meant what was with her, and the-“ She gestures in a circle around her upper body. “And the-“ She gestures toward the closed bedroom door. Steve lifts an eyebrow at her hyper behavior; he’s never seen her like this before. “And…wait.” Pepper stops, dropping her arms to her side as her brow furrows. “What did she mean, _us_?”

“She meant her and Bucky.” Steve eyes Pepper as her anger seems to dissipate into confusion and then relief. “Wait, did you think…?” He thinks about the way Pepper had been eyeing Natasha’s attire and it makes sense. “Gosh no, Natasha and _I_ aren’t…no. I’m sorry, Pepper, I didn’t even think...”

“So…Sergeant Barnes…and _Natasha_.” Steve nods. “When did that happen?”

“A few days ago, but it’s not…it’s not exactly new. It’s complicated. But Clint told Darcy and though I hate to say it, Darcy’s an awful gossip. Figured the whole world knew by now.”

“Darcy and I don’t exactly chat and it’s not like Tony’s _in the loop_ at the moment.” Pepper rubs her forehead, leaving her bangs in slight disarray. She’s been holding her briefcase in her other hand and now she lets it drop to the ground, her shoulders sagging. 

“I was just about to make breakfast, would you like something to eat?” Steve gently offers. He’s not sure why Pepper’s here at 7am on a Monday morning, but she seems a little distressed so he decides not to press her with questions. 

She takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders, smoothes her hair, plasters on a bright smile. 

“That would be lovely, Steve. Thank you.” 

“Hope eggs are all right.”

“As long as it’s not an omelette," she replies. 

“Scrambled.”

“Then we’re all good.” 

“Would you like some orange juice?” He’s already filling her a glass. The coffee’s going to be a minute. 

“You need to move back into the tower.” 

He jerks toward her and sloshes orange juice over the counter. He quickly sets the bottle down and grabs a rag, mopping up the mess while trying to think of an appropriate response. One that doesn’t involve telling Pepper she’s gone insane.

“I’m sorry…what?”

“He’s miserable without you, Steve.”

Steve dries off the glass and places it carefully in front of Pepper. 

“He was never with me.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t. I’m a little confused, to be honest. I thought maybe you and he…but then he…And now…” Steve stops, not comfortable with talking about this at all, much less with Tony’s ex-girlfriend. He turns the stove back on and picks up the spatula, eager for a distraction. 

“He told me what happened. Or rather, I forced it out of him after three days of self-indulgent wallowing and binge drinking.”

Steve keeps his gaze locked on the task at hand, not wanting to think about Tony getting lost at the bottom of a bottle. It’s not a thought he enjoys. 

“I think you two need to talk. And I think you need to pack up anything you have here that’s yours and get back into the tower permanently. No more running away.”

“I wasn’t _running away_.” Steve whips toward her, hackles up. The accusation is unfair, especially since Tony’s the only one who did any actual running. “I left because I thought he wanted me to.”

“Because nothing says _leave_ like a full floor art studio.” Pepper replies coolly and a fresh wave of frustration comes over him. 

“It does when he built it so I would leave him alone.” He’s angrier than he’d like but of all people, he would’ve thought Pepper would understand that for Tony, building that studio was just the easiest way of getting Steve out of his hair, the path of least resistance. Money is no matter to Tony and he had others to do the work; beneath the surface of the gesture there was nothing of substance. It was merely a Stark’s version of a practical solution. 

“Tony didn’t want you gone, Steve, he just wanted you out of arm’s reach.”

“I don’t…”

“Unrequited attraction is a lot easier to deal with when the person isn’t two feet away. If you were within arm’s reach, Tony might have…well, he might have reached.” Pepper takes a sip of orange juice and then nods at something over Steve’s shoulder. “Your eggs are burning.”

He bites back a curse and grabs the pan, taking it off the heat. It’s too late though; they’re pretty much destroyed. He’ll still eat them so they don’t go to waste, but he can’t offer them to Pepper like this. 

He sets the pan down with a defeated sigh. 

“How do you feel about yogurt and granola?” He asks, glancing at her. 

“I’m really fine, Steve. Don’t worry about it.”

As he slides the pan onto one of the cold burners, he considers asking exactly what Tony had shared with Pepper about what happened on the fire escape. 

“I kissed him back, you know. Did he tell you that?”

“He did. And I think the two of you need to stop talking to everyone else and talk to each other.” 

He’s saved from replying by his phone going off. It’s an _assemble_ call and before he even hits acknowledge Natasha’s already out of the bedroom, pulling on an outfit as she goes. 

“Something’s going on at the tower.” Natasha informs him and Pepper starts. “JARVIS sent out the alert.”

“I really think I should come along.” Bucky is following after her, evidently continuing a conversation that had begun behind closed doors. 

“Absolutely not. You’re not cleared and apart from Steve and I, you’re not familiar with anyone else’s battle tactics.”

“Yeah, but Steve’s in charge and Steve knows what I can do. I’ll follow his lead. Tell her, Steve.”

“Next time, Buck. Gotta sit this one out.” Steve grabs his keys and his jacket. “Pepper, I’ll let you know soon as I get to Tony. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“We taking the bike?” Natasha asks. 

“Be quicker.”

“Kay, let’s go.”

It’s a sad measure of how their lives are going that both he and Natasha breathe a sigh of relief when they find out that it’s Bruce – not aliens or Red Room or HYDRA or any other crazed maniac – that’s the cause of the problem. 

“What triggered it?” Natasha asks Betty as they watch Bruce’s lab get thoroughly trashed. To Steve, it seems more like the Hulk is throwing a temper tantrum than trying to hurt anyone; apart from looking their way once and letting out a single roar, he’s mostly confined himself to ripping apart the room.

Granted, it’s the third floor he’s done this to, but property damage is easier to deal with than casualties so he’ll take it. 

“He and my father…had words.” Betty explains, looking guilty. “I tried talking to him; sometimes when he’s…he understands it’s me and he calms down but today it was just out of control.”

“I’ve told him time and time again that he’s gotta let the Other Guy out to play once in a while. Keeping him cooped up like this is a recipe for disaster,” Tony comments, snapping his face plate down as he watches the Hulk thrash toward the windows. Steve rolls his eyes, because leave it to Tony to contribute nothing but snark. 

“Save the _I Told You Sos_ , Stark, and let’s just get Bruce back safe and sound before he hurts someone. You can gloat later.” Steve snaps. Everyone looks at him, surprised at his sharp tone. He ignores their stares. 

“Oh, crap, he’s going King Kong,” Clint announces as the Hulk smashes the glass and starts climbing outside, heading toward the top of the tower. 

“I feel like we need to come up with a better contingency plan for this, guys,” Natasha states the obvious. “Standing here watching him trash the place isn’t accomplishing anything. It’s not as if he’s going to wear himself out, he can do this for days.”

“I agree, but for now we need a quick solution. Tony, see if you can get him to follow you to the landing deck, he seems to like you all right. Contain him there best you can.”

“Great, I love being Hulk bait.” Tony mutters, nonetheless taking off through one of the broken windows and heading upward. 

“Clint, take position on the top floor, see if you can get a good angle. Get as many tranq arrows in him as you can. It won’t knock him out but maybe it will slow him down.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Betty inquires.

“Better for now if you stay safe and out of sight, Dr. Ross. Last thing we need is for Hulk to think you’re in any kind of danger. Natasha and I will head up and try to engage. We can’t have him leaving the premises and if we need to take some hits to do that, so be it.”

“I still don’t hear any solution, Cap.” Clint comments and Steve sighs, gesturing for Clint and Natasha to follow him to the elevator. 

“I know. If there was a way to get him contained, maybe we could use gas, but I don’t see how we can make that happen. In the open like this, it would take-” 

“Uh, guys?” Tony’s voice crackles over the comm.

“We’re on our way, Tony.” Steve assures him, jabbing his thumb impatiently against the up button. 

“Yeah, no, this one’s gonna be a non-starter.”

“What?” 

“Mischief managed, compadres. Brucie is taking a nap-nap.”

“What? How?” 

“Come on up here and see for yourselves, cause you ain’t gonna believe it otherwise.”

Sure enough, Bruce is back in human form and out like a light, sprawled on the deck in what’s left of his pants. 

“I don’t even know where the shot came from. But three bullets hit our Jolly Green Giant right in the kisser and exploded on impact, letting out some kind of super concentrated gas. Enough to knock out several herds of elephants. Scientifically speaking, of course.”

“Scientifically speaking?” Clint snorts. Tony stops hovering in the air around them and comes to a gentle landing beside Steve. Steve steps away under the pretense of avoiding the repulsors, but as soon as he’s on solid ground Tony flips the faceplate and shoots Steve a look that says he knows otherwise. 

“Is he going to be okay?” Betty crouches down beside Bruce, brushing his messy hair from his face. He doesn’t stir. 

“He’ll have a headache, sure, but the Other Guy usually bears the brunt of the bad stuff,” Tony explains as he squints in the bright sunlight, looking around. “Whoever our guardian angel is, he or she is a hell of a shot.”

Steve looks at Natasha and she frowns. Then she pulls out her cell phone.

“Did I miss something?” Tony asks, pointing between Steve and Natasha. Steve doesn’t bother with a reply. 

“Where are you?” She demands impatiently. Steve scans the skyline for any sign and catches the glint of a scope on the roof of a nearby building. He knows he wouldn’t have caught sight of it if Bucky hadn’t wanted him to. He rolls his eyes and taps Natasha on the shoulder. 

“Idiot at your three o’clock.” 

Natasha swears in her native tongue and then again in English.

“I’m coming over there and kicking your ass, Barnes.” She hands the phone to Steve and storms off. Bucky is chuckling on the other end of the line.

“I’m amazed you’ve kept all that stupid with you after all these years, Buck.”

“Hey, wasn’t my idea,” he explains, still laughing. “Soon as Fury decided I wasn’t going to shoot him in the back, he trained me up on what to do if the Hulk got loose. I got the call right after you two bozos left. You know I’m the only one who can make that shot, Rogers.”

“Could’ve told us you were Plan B.”

“More like Plan Z, Steve, didn’t really think Fury would use me. Bruce wasn’t supposed to find out about it, Fury figured anything Bruce knows the Hulk does too. I’d rather not be on the Other Guy’s shit list, personally.”

Steve sighs, knowing the argument is pointless. Bruce is back to being Bruce, no one got hurt, and getting angry is going to accomplish nothing. 

“You need to start training with us on a regular basis if you’re going to be on the team. Walk-ons are not okay.”

“You were all walk-ons first time around.”

“Yeah, first time and only time. Like to keep it that way. Don’t want you going into anything without knowing exactly who’s with you. I’m _not_ losing you again.”

“Steve.” Bucky sounds somewhere between touched and troubled, but Steve doesn’t let the moment hang. His need for Bucky’s friendship is not an opinion to be argued and the place Bucky holds in his heart is not up for debate. No matter what Bucky seems to think. 

“Speaking of that, you better run because Tasha’s on her way over and we can’t _both_ sleep on the couch.”

Bucky hangs up without another word and Steve watches his dark figure dart across the rooftop. He palms Natasha’s cell phone and turns his attention back to the still-unconscious Bruce.

“Come on,” he gestures to Clint. “Let’s get him inside.”

Tony steps forward instead, pulling Bruce away from Betty’s lap and easily lifting him into a fireman’s carry. Tony must catch his irked look because he lets out an annoyed huff himself.

“What? It’s a lot easier for me in the armor than for you two to do it.” He clanks off into the tower with Betty following behind. Clint shrugs.

“Another day at Avengers Tower. I need a beer.”

Steve doesn’t expect to see Tony again before he leaves, but immediately after Bruce is situated with Betty in medical, Tony tracks him and Clint down on the communal floor. Clint is already on his third beer, quite hyped up about the day’s goings on. 

“I could make that shot too, is all I’m saying. I don’t see why Fury needed to bring Barnes in with some secret plan when he’s got a perfectly good-“

“Hey.” Tony breaks into Clint’s ever-extending monologue about his superior shooting skills, abruptly bringing the diatribe to a halt. Tony stands at the edge of the decimated room, arms crossed, with a serious expression on his face.

Clint looks between him and Tony and then scrambles up off the couch.

“I just remembered. I have to be anywhere but here.” Clint bolts, knocking over his empties as he goes. One of the bottles rolls until it hits the remnants of the coffee table. 

Tony unfolds his arms and steps down into the sunken living room, glass from the broken windows crunching under his boots; Steve stands, bracing himself for whatever’s about to come next. 

“Listen, Steve…” Tony begins, putting his hands together in front of him. He doesn’t continue right away and Steve doesn’t prompt him to. “I just…I’m sorry, okay?”

The words are pushed out of Tony’s mouth like it’s painful for Tony to even say them, and that in itself makes Steve bristle. 

“What exactly are you sorry for?” 

Tony waffles in front of him, clearly unsure what to say. 

“Is everything a good answer?”

“Not especially.” 

Tony groans.

“I suck at apologies. I’d rather pretend none of this ever happened.”

“How far back you want to go?” Steve asks, half-joking, half-not. He’s tired of riding on this roller coaster with Tony. His constitution may be stronger than it used to be, but he still doesn’t like the sensation of falling and the whiplash is starting to hurt. 

Tony doesn’t answer him though, so Steve just extends his hand.

“I’m Steve Rogers. And you are?”

“Not that far back.” Tony mumbles, stepping away from Steve’s offered handshake. 

“Well then give me something to go on.” Steve demands, his usual patience non-existent. If Tony can’t spit out an explanation for why things have gone so wrong, he doesn’t know what they’re doing here. Tony frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, running a hand over his goatee. 

“Just move back in, okay? Bring Bucky too, I don’t care, but you need to be _here_.” 

There’s a hint of desperation in his voice and Steve softens against his will. He sighs, taking a moment to consider Tony and whether or not he can unlearn the sensation of Tony’s lips on his or forget the feeling of their bodies crushing close. He doesn’t know if he can but he has to try. There’s too much else on the line. 

“Fine. But Bucky needs his own space. Really want my own bed back.”

“I have no problems making that deal.” Tony replies quickly, holding his own hand out now for a shake. Steve obliges but doesn’t linger, pulling away as fast as he can. 

By the time Steve reaches his floor, he already doubts his choice.

*******

He has to hand it to Tony.

There is something comforting about the fact his art studio is just about as far away from Tony’s workshop as the tower allows. Down here, Steve’s almost able to forget that he and Tony are in the same building. 

Almost.

When he picks up his pencil, all he wants to do is draw Tony’s hands, Tony’s mouth, Tony’s hair. He ignores the urge and busies himself with everything, anything else. 

The drawback to having the studio in a basement sublevel is the lack of windows. No natural light, no view for him to study. It doesn’t surprise him that this didn’t occur to Tony, but with JARVIS’ help he’s able to approximate natural light using certain types of bulbs and he learns how to pull up various scenes and video feeds using holographic technology. Even when he’s not referencing it, he keeps one wall occupied with scenery just for the illusion itself. 

On the Tuesday morning after his return to the tower, he enters the studio to find Tony already there, studying the hologram with an interested look on his face.

“Tony,” Steve greets him carefully, setting down his bottle of water and trying not to wonder aloud why the hell Tony is here.

“This is a pretty good idea. You figure this out on your own?”

“JARVIS helped me sort it out.” 

“Huh.”

“Was there something you needed?”

“Me? No, I just…haven’t seen you at all since you got back. Thought I’d check in, see how you were doing. I am your host, after all. Or your landlord. Well, you guys don’t pay rent, so not your landlord. Your patron? I like the sound of that. Very Renaissance chic.”

“I’m doing fine, Tony.”

Tony nods, then gestures to a twisted heap of scrap metal that Steve had brought in only yesterday. 

“Planning to make yourself a droid, young Skywalker?”

“What?”

“You haven’t seen that yet? I thought you had.”

“It’s for a project,” Steve bypasses whatever conversation Tony is trying to have and just addresses the unspoken question. “I thought I’d try my hand at something…bigger.”

“Bigger?”

“I used to draw and paint because I was too weak to do anything else. Now, well…maybe I’m ready for something more physical.”

Tony gives him an odd look, and then coughs a little. 

“Well, Michelangelo, I can get some marble down here for you if you want, I know a guy.“

“If I need something I’ll find it myself, thanks,” Steve replies. That came out harsher than he meant it to, but he finds he doesn’t want to temper it with an apology. Tony shrugs it off. 

“Carry on then.” Tony waves with an imperious air, sauntering toward the elevator. “Just be careful of rusty nails, don’t know if super soldiers are immune to tetanus.”

Steve stares at the wall for a long time after Tony leaves, his inspiration sapped. 

“JARVIS, can I install an access code for this floor?”

“You may, sir, but I do feel compelled to inform you that Master Stark has skeleton codes for the entire building. He can override any code you create.”

“And besides, I suppose it would be incredibly rude to lock him out considering he owns the place,” Steve allows. 

“I do agree, sir. I do however understand the inclination. Many have expressed frustration with Master Stark.”

“Try to keep me from doing anything too stupid, okay?” He knows it’s pretty silly to ask an AI for that, but a polite reminder from time to time to keep his cool might be good if he’s really going to make a go of staying here.

In fact, JARVIS reminds him the very next morning when he walks into the studio and finds Tony flipping through his sketchbook, waiting for him with a cup of coffee and a box of donuts.

He sets to work, giving Tony minimal attention, and eventually Tony leaves. 

Only to return later on with dinner. 

“Well you need to eat.” Is the only explanation Steve gets.

The next night Tony races in from the stairwell, panting and white-faced. Steve drops the pane of pale blue glass he was holding and hurries to Tony’s side before he thinks better of it. 

“What the _hell_ are you doing down here?” Tony gasps, gesturing wildly to the pile of broken glass that sits in the center of the room. The pane he just smashed was about the tenth of the night but it was the first he’d dropped unintentionally. “JARVIS said…Jesus Christ…” Tony leans against the wall, near collapse.

“Tony, did you _run_ all the way down here?”

“Elevator was taking too long.”

Steve gets a bottle of water from the small fridge he’d installed and twists off the cap, handing it to Tony. 

“Are you okay?” Tony asks him, and Steve widens his eyes.

“Are _you_ okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“What the hell’s with the smashy-smashy? I thought that was Bruce’s department.”

Steve looks over his shoulder at the pile of glass, the shards still too big for his purposes. He’s going to need to break them down even further with a hammer. He gives Tony what’s become his standard explanation for anything he does down here. 

“It’s for a project.” 

“I hate you so much right now.” Tony mutters and slumps down to the floor. Steve feels bad about it later, but he has to laugh.

Tony joins him nearly every day after that, and more often than not when Steve pauses in his work he finds Tony staring at him, his expression inscrutable. 

“What is it even supposed to be?” Tony asks him on the fourth day, wordlessly offering Steve a sandwich he’d ordered in and eyeing the pieces of trashed guardrail that Steve re-appropriated from a junkyard. He’s split each one in half vertically and is in the process of installing them onto a wide base, each one of them shooting upward. Not straight upward, though. He’s bending them and curling them, twisting them around each other as elegantly as he can. He’s honestly not sure what he’s going for but something’s taking shape on its own.

He wipes sweat from his brow with the corner of his white tank and then finishes pushing one into place. 

“JARVIS, cut the hipster indie nonsense, would you?” Tony calls out, and Steve’s music abruptly shuts off. “Come eat, Picasso.” 

Steve strips off his work gloves and tosses them onto the table.

“Picasso?”

“Well I don’t understand that guy’s art, and I clearly don’t understand yours.”

“Thank you for the sandwich.” Steve pulls the food toward him by the wrapper and digs in. 

“It’s not that I don’t like it. I do. I just don’t know why I like it or what it’s supposed to be.”

“Not everything needs to be dissected, Tony. Not everything needs to be understood.”

“That sounded wise, y’know, it did, but it’s actually bullshit.”

“We’ll agree to disagree then,” Steve replies and Tony sags.

“You used to like arguing with me a lot more.”

“I never liked arguing with you.”

“That’s just not true.”

“Fine.” Steve shrugs, taking a big bite of his sandwich. Tony grunts, crumpling up his napkin before shoving his own food aside. 

“You know what, I’ll see you later.”

Steve doesn’t call after him or ask him to stay. He doesn’t return the next day and Steve thinks maybe things have finally changed, but the day after that, Tony’s back. He brings his own work and camps out all day long. 

At that point others start coming down to check on them. Steve wonders if they’ve set up a rotation, because over the course of the next two weeks he sees each member of the team in the studio at least once every day.

“I think they think you’re going to kill me and paint your masterpiece with my blood,” Tony comments out of the blue and Steve gives Tony an honest laugh for the first time in a long time. “You’ll be a big hit, people love that controversial stuff, like that chick who painted with her period.”

“Um, I think Pepper left that out of the tour of contemporary art.” He’s grateful, because the whole thing sounds rather horrifying. He shakes the can of spray paint he’s been using, noticing that the label reads _Blood Crimson_. He wonders if Tony noticed or if that’s just a coincidence.

“I like what you’re doing. Kinda reminds me of fire.” Tony lifts his chin toward Steve’s work but then goes back to his own, moving something on the diagram suspended in front of him. 

Steve looks at the sculpture, considering. It kind of does look like fire. If fire were made of steel.

He doesn’t realize what’s he’s done until he’s putting on the finishing touches. He’s dropped a loosely structured column of falling glass down the center of the piece, each tiny shard connected to the others with tensile strength cord that Bruce had given him precisely for this purpose, something he got from OsCorp. The cord’s nearly invisible so it looks like the icy blue glass is suspended on its own, an explosion frozen in mid-air and trapped in the curves of the surrounding flames. The three pale blue lights he recessed inside the bottom of the sculpture illuminate each piece of glass, setting everything a shimmer. 

When Bucky comes to see it, he takes a step back and turns to Steve with a hard look on his face. Steve instantly deflates.

“You don’t like it.”

“It’s not that,” Bucky says, taking a deep breath and narrowing his eyes at him like he’s not all together sure that he should say what he’s about to say. Steve braces himself for the criticism. 

“What’s wrong? You can tell me, Bucky, I’d rather hear it from you.”

“It’s beautiful, Steve, it really is.”

“But…?”

“But you…You know this is Tony, right?” He asks, gesturing to the sculpture. 

“What do you mean?”

“You made Tony.”

Steve looks at the twisted shards of highly polished and shaded red and gold metal, the blue-white broken glass, the shining light, and it strikes him that Bucky is right.


	9. Chapter 9

“It’s gorgeous.” 

Tony is jarred from his thoughts by Pepper’s soft voice. He hadn’t heard her walk up. He glances at her over his shoulder and then goes back to staring at the sculpture recently installed in the atrium of the lobby. 

Steve’s sculpture. 

It’s the third time today he’s come all the way down here to look at it. _Stare_ at it. 

Objectively he knows it’s a good piece of work. It’s balanced in form, balanced in color. It’s equal parts sleek and jagged, kinetic and still. There’s a sense of movement and a sense of force, like trying to contain something that refuses to be contained. He can parcel it down to its separate pieces; admire its construction and how it functions. 

Art is just math, expressed with a different set of symbols. 

But he finds nothing concrete to account for the feeling he gets every time he looks at it. It’s more beautiful than the most advanced equation he could ever fathom. 

Beside him, Pepper stays silent. 

He doesn’t know how much time he lets pass before he speaks but she waits patiently, knowing that he’s eventually going to have something to say. 

“I don’t want to fuck everything up.”

“So don’t fuck it up.” Pepper replies. Like it’s that simple. Pepper puts her hand on his arm, pulls him to look at her. “You have to at least try, Tony.”

“Why?”

“Because he loves you too.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It can be.” 

She leans in and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. He recognizes it for the blessing it is, but he doesn’t know if he can live up to its promise. 

Pepper leaves him be after that, lingering for a few more moments before heading out into the New York City night. 

The lights of the sculpture seem to grow brighter as the sun goes down. Tony sits on the marble floor and watches as it all seems to change in front of his eyes, studying it as if it will eventually give him the answers he’s searching for. 

He can almost believe this is how Steve sees him because Steve is capable of seeing the good in nearly anyone. What he doesn’t believe is that what Steve sees is what he really is. 

He wants Steve so badly that he’s tempted to pretend that doesn’t matter. 

He’s spent so long assuming that Steve could never be his that it’s actually overwhelming to think that that might not be true. 

Tony spends the rest of the night there, falling asleep slumped at the base of Steve’s sculpture. He wakes up to Happy’s confused face, bending down over him as he’s jostled awake.

“Hey boss.” Happy shakes his shoulder as Tony pries his eyes open, the bright morning sunlight streaming into the atrium absolutely blinding. 

“Fuck,” Tony mumbles, rubbing his head and then his neck as he quickly inventories his surroundings, making note that yes, he did actually fall asleep on the floor in the lobby of his own building, and no, he’s not drunk or high or anything that could account for such strange behavior. 

Happy is looking at him, eyebrows arched, but after all these years the man’s learnt not to ask. Tony shrugs anyway, grunting.

“I don’t even know, Hap. I was just looking at Steve’s sculpture, guess I lost track of time.”

“It’s a nice looking thing, Boss.”

“A nice looking thing?” Tony repeats in disbelief as Happy helps him up from the floor. He wishes he could’ve completed that move with more grace but he’s really getting too old to be spending nights passed out on marble tile. Every part of his body hurts. “A nice looking thing?”

“Art criticism isn’t really my forte.” 

“Well let me tell you…” Tony starts, and then quickly realizes that he has no idea how to verbalize exactly how beautiful Steve’s work seems to him, or why. “Okay, nevermind. Just know that your evaluation of the piece has vastly underwhelmed me.”

“Got it.” Happy steadies him by the elbow and starts gently leading him toward the elevator. When Happy starts punching in the access code for Tony’s upper floors, Tony realizes that’s not at all where he wants to go. 

“JARVIS, is Steve home now?”

“Sir, Captain Rogers left early this morning to attend a charity baseball game at the Long Meadow fields in Prospect Park, after which I believe he is scheduled to appear at a luncheon fundraiser for The Children’s Aid Society. After these functions I believe the Captain’s schedule is clear, although Agent Hill has placed a request for his assistance with some matters pertaining to a new training program at SHIELD and Agents Barton, Romanoff and Barnes have demanded his presence at dinner.”

“Oh for christ’s sake.” Tony mumbles. “Just one time I’d like to ask where Steve is and have someone tell me he’s watching reality TV in bed like the rest of the human race.”

“Well, sir, he is Captain America,” Happy states, smiling in amusement. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. He looks like sunshine and smells like apple pie.”

“I wasn’t going to go that far, Boss, but if you say so.”

Tony watches the numbers light up on the way to the top of the Tower and contemplates how he’s going to pass this day away without driving himself crazy. Even though he hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s going to say to Steve, he wants to say it _now_.

“It’d probably be bad if I crashed his baseball game, right?” Happy doesn’t answer, which is fine, because Tony didn’t need a response. “Right. I could cut a check to the thing with the kids though, maybe. Luncheons are never that great because there’s hardly anything to drink, but maybe in this case…” Happy doesn’t chime in here either, so Tony lets it go. He knows he has to hold off as long as he can; barging into things with Steve hasn’t exactly gone well for him so far and when he wants to, he can learn from his mistakes. Theoretically. In practice…

Tracking Steve down and kissing him senseless seems like a mistake worth making. 

“Well I guess I could head to the lab, see what Bruce is up to.” He reaches for the keypad to direct the elevator elsewhere but Happy coughs a little, making him stop. 

“Just wanted to point out, Boss, that you do _not_ look like sunshine or smell like apple pie.”

“You telling me I look less than dashing, Hogan? That what you’re implying?” Tony turns to look at his warped reflection on the elevator wall, brushing a hand through his hair, then ducks his head to sniff his shirt. “Ok, so, you might have a point.”

“That’s what you pay me for, sir.”

The elevator doors open on his private quarters, the top story of the Avengers Tower penthouse. He’s already picturing what Steve would look like, stripped naked and waiting for him on his bed. 

“JARVIS, will you alert me when Cap comes home?”

“I will, sir.”

“Soon as he gets back.”

“I will, sir.”

“Not a second later.”

“Boss, you know how HAL turns homicidal in _2001_?” Happy interjects. 

“I was just making sure he understood!” 

“I don’t want to have to try and explain to the authorities that you were murdered by an AI. I’d rather not spend the next 25 to life at Sing Sing.” 

“Oh, Pep would never let you go down for that.”

“Glad to hear there’s a contingency plan in place.”

“I have contingencies for nearly everything. And I’m quite good at coming up with awesome shit on the fly, too.” Tony grins, waving toward his arc reactor. 

“Tony Stark, ready for anything.” Happy states and Tony agrees without thinking, the boast as natural as breathing. It’s not until the elevator doors close on Happy’s departing figure that he stops to consider if it’s true.

He wants it to be true.

*******

His hand is shaking as he lifts it to knock on Steve’s door. He wipes his sweaty palm on the front of his jeans as he waits for Steve to answer.

He cannot remember a time when he felt this nervous about seeing someone. As prone as he is to hyperbole, it isn’t an exaggeration. His whole body is in tumult: anticipation and anxiety, desire and doubt, all these different emotions tugging him in multiple directions. 

Tony considers getting back on the elevator, because it’s not too late to turn back, but he manages to stay still. He doesn’t know if he deserves this, doesn’t know if he’ll be able to keep it, but if he can be with Steve even once he has to do it. He can’t go on imagining what it could be if only he _dared_.

He’s so on edge that he nearly jumps when the door is finally pulled open. 

“Steve,” Tony breathes, somehow unprepared for the sight of him looking so perfect in this casual nothing of a moment. He’s dressed for bed, and these days that means he’s barely dressed at all. No more oversized grandpa pajama sets; just a pair of low slung pants sitting loose on his slim hips. Tony rakes his gaze over Steve’s broad shoulders and down his bare chest to his stomach, following the light barely there trail of hair down to the half-untied drawstring of his pants. It doesn’t seem like he’s wearing anything underneath. 

For once, he’s not carefully put together, not smoothed over or pressed and proper, and all can Tony can think is how much he wants to pull Steve close and demolish every last vestige of decorum. 

So he does. 

Hands at Steve’s shoulders, he takes advantage of Steve’s surprise to back him inside the apartment, letting the door fall shut behind them. 

“Been waiting all day for you to get back.” Is the only preamble to him slamming Steve to the wall and kissing him for all he’s worth. 

For one brief but wonderful moment, Steve returns the kiss with equal fervor as if the response is automatic. But then his hands are flat against Tony’s chest on either side of the reactor, pushing him back. He doesn’t push hard, just enough to get space between them so he can get words out. 

“Tony. Do you really want to do this?” Steve seems almost resigned, a frown already creasing his face. “Because I don’t think I can manage it if you change your mind again.”

“I’ve been wanting to do this since the beginning. There’s never been any doubt about what I wanted. Just what I should do about it.”

Tony leans in to kiss Steve again but he feels Steve tense under his hands, the muscles of Steve’s chest and stomach tightening as he sucks a deep breath in. Tony sighs in response to Steve’s obvious hesitation, even as Steve’s lips part in an incredibly inviting way.

“I don’t know if I deserve you.” He brushes his mouth against Steve’s gently once, then twice, each passing sensation building up an electric charge. “But I’m good at being selfish.”

“I’m not someone to be _deserved_ , Tony. And you’re one of the least selfish people I know.”

“I hardly-“

“Can you _not_ walk away because I’m asking you to stay? Can you please let it be that simple?” 

_Yes_ is on the tip of his tongue but it won’t fall all the way over, instead remaining silent there just before the point of speech. 

Steve cups the side of his face with one hand, thumb brushing over his cheek. The other falls to Tony’s waist, steady and firm, not pushing but guiding Tony closer. 

“I’ve always known my own mind, Tony. I want you.” Tony’s body betrays him, hopelessly shuddering when he feels Steve hard and hot between his legs, Steve rolling his hips ever so slightly to make sure Tony _knows_. If Steve wants him thinking clearly, this is not the way to do it. All he can think about now is getting Steve’s naked body against his. “But want or not, I _can’t_ if you’re not sure.”

“Never been more sure in my life.” Tony slides his hands around Steve’s waist and then down the back of his pants, fingers spreading wide across the tight swell of Steve’s utterly _amazing_ ass. “And I know we got a lot to talk about and all, but I swear to god I’m not gonna be able to think clearly until I fuck you. Or you fuck me. I don’t even care; I honestly cannot concentrate on anything else besides getting your clothes off right now.”

It’s ridiculous that even as he and Steve are rutting together, Steve actually blushes. Tony captures Steve’s mouth, the kiss graceless and eager and totally desperate. He licks his way inside and draws Steve’s tongue out against his own. Steve groans quietly, hips arching in an aborted thrust. Tony whispers an encouragement, not wanting Steve to hold back. 

Tony pulls the drawstring of Steve’s pants all the way loose and drags himself away from Steve’s kiss. He drops to his knees, stripping Steve’s only article of clothing down his strong legs. Tony doesn’t stop to look before engulfing Steve’s length, taking as much down as he can in one smooth movement. He’ll give himself a moment to appraise as soon as he brings Steve to the brink, not willing to risk a moment’s pause for Steve to doubt.

“Oh, Tony,” Steve half-sighs, half-cries, surprised by how fast things are going. One of Steve’s hands settles softly in his hair, and when Tony chances at look upward, Steve’s got his other hand against his own forehead as if he might swoon, color high on his cheeks and his kiss-swollen lips parted as he pants out short, shaky breaths. Steve closes his eyes tightly, opens them and then closes them again, apparently unable to decide how best to cope with the sensations overwhelming him. Tony could lie and say that this wasn’t his intention, but he doesn’t see the point. He kind of wants to blow Steve’s mind before Steve has time to think better of it. 

Tony pulls off gently, lips wrapped around the sensitive tip of Steve’s leaking cock, the taste of him gathering on the flat of his tongue. Steve’s eyes flutter open and Tony stares up at him as he wraps his fingers around the impressive girth and pumps slowly, finally looking at the full length of him and letting the visual sink in. He memorizes it, the weight and heat in his hand, tracing the thick vein as blood surges downward to swell Steve’s dick impossibly larger in his grasp. 

“Tony…” Steve breathes as Tony leans in and presses kisses to the insides of Steve’s thighs, feeling the muscles tremble underneath his lips. He continues stroking and his mouth caresses everywhere else, following the lines of Steve’s abs and breathing in that heady scent of sex that he never would have believed could hang on Steve. 

Old-fashioned, virtuous Steve, standing here in his foyer with his pants around his ankles with one of Tony’s hands gently fondling him between his legs, another jerking his cock, and Tony’s tongue licking at his weeping slit. It’s downright pornographic and Tony’s sure he’ll be going to hell for corrupting Captain America.

It’d totally be worth it. 

Even so, he makes to pull back. Steve whimpers at the loss and Tony sucks in a sharp breath, the sound of it making his own dick twitch. 

He tilts his head upward and meets Steve’s heated gaze. 

“Are you sure about this?” He forces himself to ask, shocked by how wrecked his voice already is. Steve’s fingers flex and then tug a little at his hair before he lets go to use both hands to pull Tony to stand. 

“You’re here because you saw the finished sculpture, aren’t you?” Steve responds with his own question, and Tony nods. “Then I don’t see why you’re even asking that.” 

He reaches down and grips the bottom hem of Tony’s black tee, lifting upward and giving Tony no choice but to go with it. Steve tosses the shirt aside and pulls Tony back close, the following kiss deep and quite thorough. He’s really good at this kissing thing, good enough that Tony’s actually feeling a bit dizzy. Steve’s hands start to work at his belt and zipper and it takes him a minute to catch up to the action. 

“If this is a dream I’m going to cry when I wake up,” Tony mumbles half to himself, half to Steve, kicking off his shoes before they both step out of their pants and fumble toward Steve’s bedroom. 

“Not a dream.” 

“Can’t be sure. I think I’ve _had_ this dream.”

“So have I.”

“Can’t believe that.” Tony really can’t. He can’t imagine Steve longing for him this way. “Since when?”

“Since Vegas. Aspen. Not really sure.” Steve gently touches the arc reactor with the tips of his fingers, and Tony’s astounded by how the light plays across Steve’s handsome features and that Steve’s attraction to him isn’t some newfound revelation. 

“I could’ve…hell, I could’ve had you since _Vegas_?”

“Can have me now.” Steve reaches down and for the first time wraps his hand on Tony’s cock, giving his entire length a firm stroke. Tony shudders with arousal, doesn’t miss the fact that Steve does too. 

“Yep, totally a dream.” Tony gasps against Steve’s lips as he backs him through the bedroom doorway. 

“So in your dream what would happen next?” 

“I’d get inside you, fuck you nice and slow and hard.” He can feel a surge of pre-come drip from his dick as he speaks the words, the thought more than enough to bring him near the edge. Steve’s face darkens in the best way, his eyes dilating with pleasure. Steve turns and pulls out his nightstand drawer halfway, leaves it hanging open. He then stretches out across his bed. 

Tony knows an invitation when he sees one and follows him over, pausing to gather lube and condoms from the drawer. There’s a note alongside the packages and he opens the folded paper. 

_You hurt him again, I’ll kill you._

He tosses the two items onto the bed beside Steve and turns the note over a few times between two fingers, holding it up in question. 

“Bucky or Natasha?” Tony inquires as he crawls onto the bed, straddling Steve’s waist. Steve reaches up and takes the paper. 

“Natasha,” He sighs, making a face. “But Bucky’s the one who told me to look in the drawer if this ever happened, so…”

“Team effort. Yay.” Tony chuckles with a half-hearted cheer, trying to take the note back. Steve makes a move to crumple it up and toss it aside but Tony grabs it, straightening the crinkled paper out. He sets it on the nightstand as Steve lifts an eyebrow, confused. “Hey, Cap, I plan on taking that seriously.” 

He shifts down the bed, running his hands over Steve’s body, just feeling him react. He’s never felt so powerful and powerless at the same time. He touches and touches, flat of his palms moving over Steve’s skin, trying to follow Steve’s cues and not push him too far too fast. 

“What do you want?” Tony keeps his voice soft, needing it all but not wanting to assume. Steve lifts his head from the pillow, looking down the length of his body as Tony continues to learn the lines and planes of his muscles. 

“Remember when you said you wanted me to let you tear me apart…?” 

Tony swallows hard, his hands stilling on Steve’s thighs as Steve almost imperceptibly spreads his legs just that much wider. 

He nods, locking into Steve’s intense gaze, trying to tell him just how much this will mean to him. It means everything. 

He leans forward, looking down at Steve as Steve sinks back against the pillows. 

“Do it,” Steve says and Tony dips his head, telling Steve with his kiss that he certainly will. 

Tony spends the rest of the night taking Steve to pieces, not caring that he’s falling apart right alongside him. 

And when he falls asleep, sated and sweaty and sticky and completely undone, he actually feels whole.

*******

“Hmmm, good morning…” Tony relaxes back into Steve’s embrace as Steve’s strong arms encircle him from behind, distracting him from his first cup of coffee. It’s the second day in a row that he’s been greeted this way, and there’s definitely something to be said for it.

Steve smells like rain and tastes like mint, fresh and clean from the shower, still damp enough to feel cool against his skin when Steve bends to press kisses along his neck. Tony sets down his coffee in order to twine his fingers in Steve’s hair, urging him on. 

He could really get used to this. In fact, the thought of returning to mornings without exactly this makes him thoroughly and completely depressed. 

“I don’t think I’m ever gonna let you leave this apartment, Cap. Just as a heads up. Thought you might want to know.”

“Gonna hold me prisoner?” Steve smiles against his cheek, his hands sliding underneath Tony’s thin t-shirt, those wide palms pressing flat along his lower abs, fingertips tracing the bottom edge of the arc reactor. For someone whose longest previous relationship lasted the length of one passionate kiss, Steve’s surprisingly good with casual intimacy. “Keep me tied up?”

He’s actually real damn good with all kinds of intimacy. 

“Guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do,” Tony retorts, angling his head back over his shoulder to kiss Steve again. He quickly turns it hard and dirty, fucking his tongue in and out of Steve’s mouth and not so subtly pressing his ass back against Steve’s groin, only the thin cotton of his own underwear and the terrycloth of Steve’s towel separating him from what he wants. 

Steve smiles against his lips, chuckling softly.

“Just took a shower,” he murmurs, even as his arms tighten their hold. 

“You really shouldn’t have bothered. I mean, this isn’t some Life Model Decoy situation, you _have_ been present for the past two days, right? What did you _think_ we’d be doing this morning?” Tony reaches behind and tugs at Steve’s towel, pulling it loose. 

“Tony,” Steve admonishes, nevertheless sliding a hand down the front of Tony’s boxer briefs, steadily rubbing over his thickening cock. Tony hums in pleasure, still in thrall to how easy this has been. He should never have fought it this long. 

“We can’t stay in here forever, you know,” Steve comments, poking holes in Tony’s happiness, right where the weakest spots are. Tony knows he’s right but he’s not that eager to test it out. “I’m not going to change my mind once we leave the apartment, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

“I’m not worried,” Tony lies, which hardly matters because Steve sees right through him, his touch stuttering to a stop before he pulls his hand away. 

“Tony…”

“I’m not changing my mind either,” Tony presses on, not wanting to get hung up on his insecurities this morning, not when Steve’s gorgeous cock is rubbing suggestively against his lower back. He puts his hands over Steve’s hands and pushes Steve’s fingers around the top of his underwear, shoving at the fabric and stripping himself down to nothing. 

He’s still loose and wet from their last round of it’s-so-late-it’s-morning sex, when Steve had worked him open and slid into him carefully as they spooned. It had been slow and deep and lazy and perfect. He wants Steve to take advantage of his body’s willingness. 

“Want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.” That’s not a lie, and honestly too much the truth, but he’s having a hard time reining that back in now that he’s started. Maybe it’s because every time he lets a comment like that loose, Steve rewards his vulnerability. He’s always been easily swayed by positive reinforcement. 

Positive reinforcement like Steve whispering his name and pushing in from behind, his slow upward thrust lifting Tony onto the tips of his toes. He braces himself against the counter, hands flat against the smooth granite. The cool surface warms quickly underneath his palms. 

“God, you’re too good at this, it’s unfair,” Tony groans as he bends slightly forward, rocking slightly with Steve’s rhythm. 

“Don’t think I’d be like this if it wasn’t with you,” Steve murmurs, rotating his hips as he thrusts. Tony tightens around him, giving as good as he gets and making Steve moan. “Never expected it to be this way.”

“Never expected to be with another man, seventy years in the future?” Tony laughs breathlessly, his hands slipping on the countertop. “Can’t imagine why you didn’t see that one coming.”

Steve laughs a little too, then wraps an arm around his waist and pulls Tony back, using his other hand to tilt Tony’s face back for a kiss. 

“I love you.” Steve kisses him again before he has a chance to reply, maybe not wanting to make Tony feel he has to say it back. And Tony would have said it back, if not for the fact that hearing the words fall from Steve’s lips sends him spiraling over the edge long before he thought he would. His orgasm wrenches out of him, his cock twitching untouched as his come spurts all over the countertop in a fantastic mess. His climax seems endless, pumping until there’s nothing left. It seems a rather undignified response to a declaration of love but he couldn’t help it. 

Steve works him through the aftershocks, going until Tony’s entire body is trembling and every thrust makes him gasp. Steve starts to pull out, still hard, but Tony reaches back and grabs his ass, shoves him back in. 

“Could’ve at least let me say I love you too,” Tony says as Steve hits him in just the right place and he pitches forward with a moan, hands slipping on the counter. Steve slips forward with him, pressed against Tony’s sweat-slick back as Tony involuntarily clenches around his length. Steve comes with a bitten-off groan and the feel of Steve pulsing inside of him is nearly too much for Tony to take. 

He doesn’t have time to revel in the sensation of Steve filling him up because just then the door to the apartment swings open and Bucky walks in. 

“Okay, we’ve given you guys time and we’ve respected your space but _Assemble_ calls are a different story, we – Oh Holy Mother of God!” Bucky stops in his tracks, covering his eyes and turning away. “I did not see that, I saw nothing!” He doesn’t leave though, planting his feet and remaining with his back to them and his hand over his face. “The kitchen, Steve? I _eat_ here!” 

“Hey, I gave you your own floor, Barnes, you can eat there,” Tony retorts, grimacing as Steve pulls out and bends to pick up his towel. He resituates Tony’s underwear on his hips, covering him up. He’s blushing bright, bright red as he grabs the dishtowel from by the sink and throws it over the come-streaked countertop. “And have you ever heard of knocking?”

“I was knocking. Apparently you two were otherwise _occupied_. Where the hell are your phones? And why is JARVIS turned off in here?”

“I think I liked you much better when you weren’t officially part of the team,” Tony comments. “Give you an inch, you take a mile.”

“What’s going on?” Steve asks. 

“Some kind of robot attack on Battery Park. Some bozo named Dr. Doom is claiming responsibility and threatening to unleash the rest of his forces on the city.”

Tony exchanges a look with Steve, both of them reluctantly agreeing that their little sexual stay-cation has come to an abrupt but unavoidable end. 

“Hill’s already routed someone to give us a lift.” 

“We’ll meet you on the platform in five.” Steve states.

“Guess this means I have to go get dressed.” Tony sighs, annoyed.

“ _Five_!” Bucky shouts a reminder as he hurries out. Tony rolls his eyes, not so much at Bucky but the whole situation. 

“I was really enjoying this,” Tony gestures between himself and Steve, upset that some strange villain and his army of robots have disrupted their idyllic morning. “Do you suppose it’s too late for us to turn in our superhero cards and run away to some tropical paradise? Pretty sure I own an island or two, somewhere.”

“Duty calls, unfortunately.”

“ _Unfortunately_? I really have undone you, Cap. I thought you lived for this stuff.”

“Still do. And now I got more to fight for than ever.” 

He’s so earnest that Tony’s natural instinct is to poke fun, and he steps in close, patting the center of Steve’s chest, right where the star of his uniform usually lays.

“You’re ridiculous, Rogers.”

“And you still think everything’s a joke.”

“Only if it’s funny,” Tony replies before smiling his way into a kiss that he happily extends as long as possible. 

“We gotta go,” Steve states when he pulls away and Tony fights it, dragging him back. “You should go put on the suit.” 

“They can handle it. How bad can some silly robots really be?”

“Tony?” Steve gathers him up in his arms and holds him still. “Put on the suit.”

“But I-“

“I promise, we’ll still be here when we get back. The city needs our help. Put on the suit.”

“Ugh, fine.” Tony reluctantly heads for the door. 

He meets the rest of the Avengers on the roof in less than five, because he’s efficient and brilliant like that, and Steve steps out into the bright morning sunlight not a moment after. 

Tony pauses at the ramp up to the Quinjet, looking inside at Clint, Bucky, Natasha, Bruce, Thor, each one of them curious and waiting. He turns to Steve, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“What do ya say, Cap – shall we go kick some ass and then get some lunch?”

“Like that plan.”

“It’s a date.”

**END**


End file.
